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enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the <6" x 9" 2012 ISBN# paperback book the 4-D Window			Enjoy this third book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book series as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book the 4-D Window

enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the 6" x 9" 2015 ISBN# paperback collection book Seeing Strangers			Enjoy this compilation book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book (of THREE books!) as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Seeing Strangers

Space Is Money

Mark Fleury

Granted, destruction means
Nothingness. God’s an egg pool,

A bubbling brew
That the Devil throws
His sentences into, hoping

To catch the shadow
Of his own winged

Window. He’s Boss
Of seeing that all activity
Is the pain of his Cross:
Christ’s disguise. As the windows

Swim upstream, he targets
The lights in their openings,
Where the hungry eyes

At the tops of Angels’
Heads are hatching.

The Devil is only trying
To give their sentences spines.

The seeing that’s famished stands
Concrete on a sidewalk, trying
To find the right house,

An ordered tunnel, a gate
To heaven’s graveyard
That begins at the sill

Of a Serpent’s tail. It’s the hyphen

Between seeing and Angel.
That while she witnesses

The top of the high, with
A tongue that tastes the honey
Of together’s essence,

Too put off by the violence
Of this world to come out
From the shore; enduring sunset


Withdrawal, licking up the mess
That the sunrise makes when
The flash off of a mountain
Peak reaches her.

*

The air is as thin,
Here, as the bones of lightning’s

Clouds when they’ve had their way
With darkness. An unexpected storm
Covers the sun like the body

That an evangelist prays for
Their second coming to earth
To be in, after dying a noble,
Holy War death.

So, when Christ comes back
To rule over his chosen ones
In the Middle East I guess
He’ll first order the clean up
Of the mess left by the Apocalypse.

To bulldoze surreal mask-horse heads,
Trees made from the veins of oil well
Hearts pumping blood geysers,
And flesh window

Shades over eyes into landfills
With Judgment Day sized flies.

The bodies of “chosen ones” are bubbling
And melting across window panes’

Dream-lids, opening. Waking up
From a dream of mushroom cloud

Pictured dollar bills on mile
Long assembly line factory
Conveyor belts,

Angel Muse stands at the edge
Of the Golden City. Her Devil
Boss (Christ’s disguise) guards
The entrance with a sword-door,
The shadows of which

Are sentences. He is her brother.
His feet are firmly planted on
The ground. A hermaphrodite whose
Bottom half is male, he is the
Creation of The Word.

Those who accept that God
Is the only destruction that isn’t
Sin will be able to enter when
The creation of a given inhale
Dies for the last time in this life.

Angel, who is always slightly
Elevated, above the ground, is
The threshold between time becoming
Internal space. It’s her who
Accesses the outer earthly
World through the opening at
The top of her head, which also opens the
Heart of her wings. Energy
Itself it seems, is that
Expansion, where creation dies
And poetry begins.

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