yawning into eldervisions the priests honeyed their veins and hung their passions behind the cough on the snowed-out television. they nailed opposable thumbs on their wall to indicate their degree of passion and spray painted roses on the table. one day their folds of Jesusflesh sprung a leak.
On the first day, their orphaned memories reconfabulated. it was at a time when radio towers splotched the nightscape. red armies outnumbered white armies and there was a balloon floating above the head of god.
On the second day, another logic crawled between their walls and tapped a new line for the dead. it was at a time when a knife in the snow meant a denouncement in the hypnotic modulations of the void.
On the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth days these priests found their usual place at a Polish restaurant and waited for wodka. this was at a time when Poland was schooled in the techniques of stamping and everyone carried an ice-age debris in their mind-chunk. yokels know best.
on the seventh day, boredom became their bed of undoing. this was at a time when night rabbits scoured the land in search of rats. or it might have been when murmurs changed into spiders and crawled through drainpipes. it is simply true that a rich man doesn’t know where to look. the infant was in the abyss.