Horeb

whetstone sisyphus thrusts

for gods to sharpen and smooth

mountain sages tongues

holy heyoka

I am
infinite jest, garrulous with silence.
My heart is a wound
from battering through prison walls
called rib cages
guarding red herrings
called hearts.

// Gary McGee

Die

the top of the earth the gamblers spin
a dreidle is loaded for eastern light

the game from birth burns blood and oil
bellies get bloated their haste to indict

grasping at mirth the chaser crawls
toward ash, and so did the rest of her might