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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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