I have fallen on Croatan—
a slow easy heat descending
like a pardon from our zombie king George,
like the voice of dissent upon discovering
silence—
where the men and children
vanish into women’s wombs and
women climb into goddess like
a door opening in mother earth,
carrying mystery away from white
lie, participle death, stamp tax,
the violence of breeding propaganda whores;
the ancient realms—great swamps of maize,
delirious hares, vulgar giant fowl
screaming Cthulhu across roots knotted
like hurricanes spewing water, leaves,
light and fire hundreds of feet in the air—
await us on Dare’s word as to when
we ride pony express across miss
america to deliver
the word

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