flood of letters.. syllables... spots....

Tiny rocks that splash through the wafts of water
spilling over the table's edge down, down, down
into the chasm below, humidity, smoke, a mist
shrouding the oncoming traffic as it trickles
into a sea of nothingness, jagged edges and
blackened moss waving to onlookers as a crowd
after a big hit.

free fall, spinning, twirling, bounding, some
screaming towards impending splashes,
ready to disappear into the rubble of a building
soon to become a pile of political rubble,
terrorism, television and theaters all to come.

which kamikaze myth will come true today?
The print springs to force and the masses will
come to the periphery and peer over it, starry eyed,
looking for neon signs and electric dreams,
ready to parachute, plunge and pummel themselves.

Deep, deep in the belly of the abyss, a grumbling begins;

when will it end?