Phil Estes



The old man, always with the gas mask on, weeps for the space needle because, remember, it's a prayer tower now. He's not an asshole, more a kingmaker. He feeds his dog first, his rock band second. He will walk into the last shadow left and be taken up into the claws. They won't be claws, but the thick hands of Whatever.



Is it still cool to call the ones behind the gate Galileans? They don't fish anymore, they are bountiful. They toss frozen bass from the tower like green stones, they call it witnessing. One killed the bassist. There's a whole joke about it now, how doing a bunch of H is a better way to go. The space between before and after is really just a womb, and the apostate curls himself inside like a tired dog.







These prose poems come from a new project. I think the apocalypse is actually really boring and if its comes it will be boring. And all we'll have left are fragments of things. Eliot was right at least on that. This is where Katniss and her world is wrong.