wretched hillside resurrection in signature stent bar-lines

The wretched and the lonely among the giants
of Stater Bros. in hillside falling and calling of
San Bernardino and steak knife playwrights
tossing the salsa like a dream-line across tempted
quakes of shattered plaster oval walkways with
gardened eyes stealing the pheasants of God’s wake

“are you sure you want to do this” God calmly asks,
“okay,” God hesitates, “but this will be the last time
I tell you,” in hushed tones behind our hearing glance

Hoarse stricken carbon condemns the coffee wake, muffled,
evolving like quicksand under a patronizing stent army
where the last tithe song was made in Alaska in 2072
and the favorite disturbance was left endowed, mornings
seeing all wind-scoped air, in the morning, we have
no doubts the pheasants walk in the standing morning