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Poetry
Science Fiction
salt
she looks upon the forbidden, and looks
beyond the horizon, into the void
and she, pillar of wisdom, turns away
from us; salt of the earth, she opens up
pathways to the stars, leaving the old ways
as rutted, meandering tracks of dirt
ash
cradled in my palm, so wizened and gray,
was civilization: stillborn, and cold
"therefore he made the rampart and the wall
to lament," for all that had gone before
and dreams with forceps drawn from a fire, spent
raising citadels of flame from the wood
dust
the clouds of dust come down on other worlds
or rest in cobwebs strung from sun to sun
in a house deserted, borne on the wind
and the waves, windows to the soul broken
by death's-head phantoms and caped crusaders,
by children given candy made of glass
clay
a being rises, the sun for a kiln
and a melanoma for his glazing
made painfully aware of the fissure
that comes from staring upward, mouth gaping
at the sword of Damocles hung above
his chair at the table of Psalms and mead.
light
a blaze of consciousness torn from the mind
of an animal and returned to this
its source in the night; the machinery
opens and closes its Planck-scale circuits
on a motherboard stretching from Vega
to Sadalmalik—a thin, skull-like grin.
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Copyright 2010, WC Roberts. All rights reserved. WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC's own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.
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