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.