The genius that baked the first clay pots prospered on sunny mesas in niches of canyon walls, by the steaming Jemez Mountains...water level dropped, these sites were deserted.   


Bowls and Bombs—
each handmade and
wondrous to behold.


Peaceful is this spongy ground, the sentinel's tall shadow curling into putrid balls, saucered eyes dining on grains of fretted light, this is the largest kingdom unseen, where Lilith's ionized wings screech against bitterly cold air, a statistically disloyal breech working the night shift with Top Secret clearance, her wild heart pacing through parallel computers programmed with tropes of "pre-hostility," "environmental adjustment," "collateral damage..."

                                          Dark Mother, End of Days.


Snow smothers the earth with a heavy effluence of plutonium mixed with clay, a felony migrating downhill...

       to a little shrine    that was always there.