by WC Roberts
The damnedest thing is you’d take it with you
into fields sown with tears and constellations
of broken glass on a soft shoulder-
the summer night quaking with hope
and apprehension of the harvest to come.
Get on with it, then: the scaffold, your sacrilege
and Ascension to stations above…
islands in the sky held up by ultra-
hubristic machinations. The hemp fibers
around your neck? Not hemp.
Buckytubes stretching 100,000k
from this offshore platform into space
to carry you and the messages
in your bottle. Virulent strains of humanity.
WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC’s own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.