Alexander R. Wilkerson's Articles
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Arbora
With the light crashing down upon my crown, I suspect a false fever. A wide grin cracks open my cranial facade, sparking enlightenment. My feet are firmly implanted in a thick layer of complex and starving green ivy, and I am able to sense a wet, corporeal steam-heat. Through my nostrils it breathes, clouding all perception. Helios’s broken arrows ignite the fallen arbor and dampen the already-wet canopy of lush green leaves.
A Drunken Pity-Killing at Phoenix Corral
A tumbleweed blew past,
As each held his forty-five fast.
The sun was rising as vermilion and rushed gold,
Air was hard to breathe, straight and rather cold.
A decrepit steer skull sits off to the side of the dirt path,
Smirking at the kid and his imminent bloodbath,
A dragonfly flutters past the barrel of his boomstick,
You best fire first, kid -- and quick.
Alláh'u'abhá (literally, 'God is Most Glorious')
What is this?
The bohemian arch of your consciousness.
Yeah, that's it, go ahead and over-elaborate.
Your babel scramjet of a threnody.
What caused your drift from that big bang?
The way you generate razes my ego with hope.
So stop it, okay?
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