Bradbury Park

Out of when and without why, we experience the end of everything. Gone, in one slim moment, from the teeter-totter to a callous ground, our ears are explosions, our skulls clear ice-bones thrashing madly around inside a chrome bomb blender.

We stumble stupidly with blown-glass fire eyes and circle, confused, from sandbox to swing-set. The ants go marching six by six hurrah, hurrah beside our idiot feet, unmindful in their geometric living lines to hill and home.

Underneath a sudden-blooming fuming mushroom, the summer sky is shocked into silence. A demon shines his massive flashlight; it is all there is. There is no where. No one has how. And the sun sickens, coughing up ashes and eyes. All are blind so gladly benefit, folding carcass arms and screaming with pain-elation.

It is over.