Divine-Nathan McCool

Nathan McCool

Blood Into Ink


It’s all been Russian roulette and the game

was rigged from the start. So,

you dear and distant god, what am I to

make of these small moments between

the hammer and the head?

Allow me this thought:

The clouds that are expelled from me

into winter’s dusk no longer take the form

of myth or fancy as they are painted

against a dying sun. They are cotton candy

caricatures of a man in the act of

self immolation.

I believe perhaps all of this has been a walk

down Saigon Road, and I’m now coming to sit calmly

without movement or sound at this intersection

The world I have seen is a nuclei, and

I am an electron in sporadic oscillation all around it.

I may leave at any given moment to bring

the clouds of another world to wholeness

or part from them to expose them to the

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