When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

Heaven’s Porcupine Trees

 

In the midst of a grey Sunday, in the eye of the

week’s storm, they were sent to save the world, our angels from heaven,

but they got distracted en route, baited,

dazzled by the bright city lights and the trinkets,

and the noise,

by the mesmerizing phantasmagoria that rose up around them in a whirlwind of

abandon,

and they forgot who they were,

they forgot their names, their duties,

they forgot their home and sought refuge elsewhere,

indulging in the promise of a heaven away from Heaven —

release in the comfort of eternal Sunday, in the breath

of need and desire, a sweet and soothing breath overflowing

with secret fantasies, bursting at the seams with a Lust unchained

and unleashed upon its guardian grace,

angst borne out of lost opportunities, sheltered lives,

starving and frenzied and reeking with desire,

ready to consume the world to satisfy their hunger, their craving maddened essence.

The angels, distracted and dazzled, began to feast on the world

in obvious delight, oblivious to the world’s plight,

in the midst of a heavenly mission, the week’s end upon them,

their wings shedding feathers like maples in winter

until all that remained were porcupine trees in a flashing diorama.

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