by Andrew Penland

the defrocked dope dealer's glittery eyes match his iridescent fishnet
stockings (which belie his stolen businessman's suit). he is telling the
faeries' beautiful tales. (they know better but believe anyway.) he is
writing physiqs equations in the air. for the cops to breathe (like

  meanwhile fifths
and thirds of (drive-in
rain on the foamrubber
elephants' graveyard;
snails continue tedious hejiras
towards saturn, crawling through
the sky
inch by inch. passing

Beauties and feelings old dead priests
a seraph-man      skeletons hands
scarlet      demons clouds      waters
like a troupe of silver dancers      winds

against a dust of emerald
poured in your ears.

But let's concern ourselves with earth for a minute.

The defrocked dope dealer's booby trap worked: FLOWRs made of entropy and
antimatter eating through the cops' insomnia 'til sunrise. They have
accidentally overdosed on unreasonable beliefs. Crayola-colored crows flash
in the distance. They know. They whisper in the blank space newspapers
afford them. Earth hears them.

But only the faeries believe them.

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