OPERATION GNOME
Where
desert shrinks our bloated dreams into feats of engineering
grotesquerie is the yoga, an intuitively monstrous breccia of fractal patterns rolling
chaotic contemplations inward, refiguring political objectives
as a five kiloton-yielding device sighted at the end of a crook-shaped
tunnel.
Earth
sparks as a plow forged into
a "physics package," breaking the surface with twice-born
puffs of vapor--baby sun swinging in the arms of sensitive
instruments, adorned with strings of plastic glitter
and baubles mystically tinkling--totem poles swaying, elbows
bounce on trembling tables twenty-five miles away.
Sun's
savage eye begins to ooze its vanity, stones bare teeth like the
Maginot Line, and the heads of a dwarfish
race of telluric administrators who salted away their mineral
wealth in their own veins explode into a giant saline puddle,
insidious breath blown through Vulcan's gaping mouth bunged by a flattened
cap.
Before
electricity and Bacon's philosophy
fingers served as souls on cellular
retreats, now in their stead a plaque lionizes the scar from Industry's greedy
paw, guarded by angels who, dancing on the trackless sand,
ignite the stars beneath.
