Sisyphum felicem imaginari oportet

They Come:

Stamp the earth rind down,

shuck our boots &  nap on

rubber cockscomb pad.

Rise up &  ride in,

poles poked through with hide of   kid

flap from blither wind.

Ride into a town of  tires stacked,

a tarred prehistoric castle.

A town of shacks painted kiwi green

latches guano rimmed.

Road’s a batter of   blood &  dust.

One serf scurries off cowed &  cloaked.

Linseed-eyed &  broad of  face.

Hold, I say.

She says oh gods once nested on our tire hills

but now that tire factory flakes to tinder too.

Are you here from the world above?

Now come. Heal my kin.

Are you here from the world above?

We douse ourselves with flame retardant

&  douse the town to flame.

Are you here from the world above?

We hear her death in flames

We hear other deaths in flames   

Along each town we pass

We rave &  rove &  gore

the last oil rig hidalgo in his tin gilt throne,

His ale we drink, his heart we  jar.

We are from the world above,

We sing &  jig but like Sisyphus,

as we eye from afar,

as each child crawls out their gutted hole,

&  rebuild each dead town —   

We can never rest.

Cathy Park Hong.