Written 10/15 in Barrow, Alaska, the farthest north town in America.
This place is the color of drift wood gone grey
Whale bone and home wrap
Blizzard and aluminum waves,
They coming in from an aluminum Arctic sea.
It's shaped like antennas, shipping crates
Ice rinks, whale skulls,
Wooden hulls and carrion,
Heaps frozen in the shore.
Its edges flicker like a cardboard match that catches then balks.
And from there nothingness runs swift like a white fox.
It plays music like a wind blowing a roof-rafter kazoo.
It plays music like a wind plucking a blue tarp banjo.
It plays music like a wind that won't stop playing.
Its stars are the reflections of sodium light off wire.
Its newspapers are cold dogs barking at their chain.
Its power plant roars with the fury of a thousand shivers.
"Abyss, abyss, abyss. There can be nothing after this,"
The ancient said as he looked unto the formless sea.
And so I say again: Abyss, abyss, abyss.
There can be nothing after this.