It is this false moneyer with his gravers and burins who seeks favor with the judge
and he is at contriving from cold slag brute in the crucible a face that will pass, an
image that will render this residual specie current in the markets where men barter.
Of this is the judge judge and the night does not end. (Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian)

what we have done
will paint the far wall of space-time
a gorgeous, bloody red,
and everything that died offstage
will be set into the dancefloor
in lieu of all the boards that crack
beneath wars thereupon.

the coins that fall at the fiddler's feet
will have our names on every one,
and he will toss them to a street
that has never seen the sun.
Et in Arcadia Ego
is etched into his gun.

like steam rolling out of wounds
in the naked western night,
we slithered off tongues
until we had choked the last air
from throats to propel them.
the word of god
is written with bullet holes,
and our violence
was the only prayer he ever heard.

05/09/2011

Posted on 05/09/2011
Copyright © 2025 V. Blake