James A. Hawley
	Days of the Red Disk Having neither fire nor a place to hang His hat, the one who doesn’t practice The right religion (“Aporetic mlechchha Seeks one with similar misgivings”) Is all in anyway, longing for late Night ennui or at least an appropriate Adult beverage to wash down The snallygastered day in long deep Draughts of somnolent exegetic paresis. There.  Better.   Baseball season Opens soon & it’d be nice to attend The home opener sans parenthetical vendors Blocking the aisles, allowing a clear view Of the ivied junto, the brilliant north side Sky aproned all the way to the jouvence Blue lake. A country to the north Is known as “a collection of huts” Where stone people stand in the tundra Point to Polaris & exclaim: “God talks to me & I visit the sky!” Wear Thy Dark, Flayed & Narky Remnants Well            -for Brian OK, Tlachco. The nether chasm more Receives us, a dark good hello: hellish: What would you expect. What more could you wish Chamferred & chamoised, the stink of camphor Washing the nares & palate of your Once monkey-skinned being, flayed remnants worn By a democracy of the extinct: Moon-beamed, downtown, pinnigrade twaddle; jinxed Amphiscians all. We of the rabbit- Bitten moon –spiteful cohorts, riven shit- Heads— two fools waylaid in some ghosttown bar On Avenida Metonomia where They serve up some spectacular drinks Such as the Spectral Sankhya Grin, neatened— To go— with an extra shot of nothingness. We’ll bark in our risk & rewind, two gnar Dogs stacked in rife, your cinnamon-stick arms Wrapt god-like around the amethyst jar All plumed & coiled (your blackjack hair & smoking mirror grin) as you raise your Glass to the aether-well. What’s more, we’ll dress Ourselves in obsidian cloaks, obtend Hangdog, dreor, in suits of soot gathered From the numerous glowering braziers Lining the streets & boulevards of this — Our lost, dead, burnt, entombed city. With Luck, you’ll rise in the east as the morning star; At worst, a premonition of world’s end.