Self-Portrait With An Armless Man: Apocalypse Scene I

Admit the rain has stopped and perhaps flesh is possible in the coagulated mist. The previous line is an executive summary of the creation myth. Hello? Awe isn't silence. Awe is saliva-lubricated gag. A new moon doesn't slide forth smoothly from your throat. Teeth give it character. Spit out its rings. Why must you refuse? Maybe it's the fading kaleidoscape, the caffeinated flitter of your eyes. So that's how you wave. Okay—what's causing the sky to glow, and why must you express envy?