The Titan Was Brought Low

The Titan was brought low by a beast
so small and slow a grain sets it in shadow.
A long year he lay, first modest and afraid,
his massive arms and beautiful, terrifying hands
jutting out helpless beneath short sheets.
I looked long and unflinching into his eyes,
waiting for the burst of the dam, the warning
wail of the train riding the crest of the wave
and then the flood, and then the fire.
I might have cried at the old man, wrecked
and left stranded, burning at the bridge,
but nothing can be had from a wrung dry sponge.


About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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