Dear San Diego,
Lobbing rockets I dream. Devils stalk the land, fists of earth and stone, thunderheads pushed before them, steel walls knocked aside, all breathless the wait so distant seems. Lobbing rockets I dream.
What do you know of devils? Have you seen them standing motionless at the end of your street, that empty lot running off into the woods aback? Have you felt their flesh press your insides, their hands your temples, their weight behind your eyes? Have you expelled them from you, bruised hour knees in the shower, bile and water swirling crystalline drains? Have they claimed you a victim scorned ever after?
This bit of the film I know. This bit of the film I have lived slow, dug out in soft earth a rectangle deep and patient. This bit of the film a stuntman untrained, lit on fire, rolls unknown, a victim so born ever after.
What do you know of devils besides the robbed on rooftops that feel the wind and know it’s time to go?
