eRIC DAVID HELMS  

                                           SUNDAY, 8 .21.2022


Mindful, the glass teepees of tomorrow's city

vanished behind a broken dresser of cloud

out from which yesterday's front-page picture

got tossed for garbage after some major-

league god crumpled his newspaper into a ball.

On Sundays, I used to read the New York Times--

like religiously inside a decrepit tenement's icebox,

a means to make up for my thoughts'

bloody petrol and gasoline, but that went awry

like arctic honey and immune-resistant bats 

top Republicans went around selling

to the moon and back to the dark side

of China--where I'm the tired husk of corn

atop an old heap of the divine

just about to be set by match, to fire.