A Small Eddy in the Great Foamy Wake of Discourse

The story starts with an archangel

Maybe Gabriel or Michael

Possibly even Asrael 

It doesn't much matter which

A svelte and sexy angel—

Sporting wings of course but also

A bespoke Italian suit charcoal gray

White shirt pink tie and black oxfords—

A stylishly dressed archangel prowling a wide valley

Is how this narrative begins

It's cold but bright here

And a few clouds ache bleakly

The atmospheric rhetoric 

For some kind of harsh comedy

The archangel has a purpose

Baring divine idioms not for praise

But to announce inflections of desire

The incipient resonance of hunger 

Thirsty intonations that first tremble

Then shimmy across the grassland

We see the startled gaze

Of docile poems grazing

We see these overfed lyrics

Cringe at the smiling whip of vigilant llaneros

The archangel circles the herd

The archangel smells damp fear

Some people say that angels are sexless

But this hermaphrodite

Has a serious hard-on

Perky tits too

The archangel brings no hope

Only desire

In the valley there is an altar by a river

Where exegetes gather to explicate signs

We might ask what these haruspices learn

When they read the entrails of the sacrifices

We may wonder what they discover

When they shake quivers over diseased livers

Only with the blind spot of the retina
Can seers behold this divination

After which comes double vision 
Interrupted by death

Somewhere later in the story is a stone

Where language is conceived

That’s where we ambush the half-naked angel—

Pants around lithe ankles
Fucking the sense out of poetry 

The story ends when we hear

Our own miraculously small roar