The Nacreous Oughts

01 July 2005

   The Thetan Frontier

This woven raiment of nights and days
greenhorn contingent of cargo hustlers

I heard R’llyeth talking

full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?

in the darkness of time, in the deeps
of little guilt worms crawling

a desert of electronic dust

and the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing

there is none of them clear to us now, not one
howling whiteness under blackness

cat footed between the lumpy bunks

and the high gods took in hand

green satin and spine-bones
an armed angel whose hands rause up

fissures in the untooled rock

K. S.

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