Reality Storm

is what you get when the gauze
on which the world is painted wears thin
and sometimes rips. This is what it's like:

first the electric tingle on your forearms
and a taste of bitter lemon under your tongue.
Your mouth fills with saliva
and the water blinks in the sun like one
monstrous eye. Trees move without wind

and there's a sound like Maxwell's demon laughing
or a cataract of garbage pouring from a Dumpster
that makes you turn and stare--

--at nothing. The torn edges of creation
blow past you like a blizzard of confetti on a wind
that smells of vanilla and rust.

Hang onto something.

People have gotten sucked into reality storms before. They don't come back.

The pressure drop pops your eardrums
the sidewalk blackens and curls like burning paper
and the breeze from the abyss feels... thick
not warm, not cold. And as the rift seals itself

you may glimpse Leviathans blowing bubbles
and commenting to each other: "That one's torn."


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