There’s Something by eric overbey
There’s something terminal about a meadow torn and drilled for mineral veins, the oil derrick piercing the dense skin, the tanker swallowing the precious liquid, the valve tightly closed, the dehydrated cavities begging for help. There’s something spectacular about an earthquake that cracks certainty, the seizures of unstoppable nearness engulfing the present, the brick walls crumbling, the lamps shattering, the soil liquefied into brown blood. There’s something beautiful about a tornado that swirls like a blissful child in the backyard, the twister lifting and tossing the dinner table, the winds checking off their to do list of shingles and windows, the grey eraser indifferent to the names of someone’s brother and sister. There’s something peaceful about a tsunami that proceeds through rooted generations, dragging along a kaleidoscope of buildings and cars, the ocean filling the open mouths that stand on roofs screaming for Mom and God, the water solemnly rising, the voices gargling their way to death. There’s something justified about a sunset that decays the hands of the watchmaker, the burning orange a cage that within he attaches a face to his timepiece. He prods the earth, a rodeo bull.
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