Artist addicted to beauty. Townsfolk say, There goes the Reverend. What they call him. Angular. Cheap. Work, work, work.
"What's he doing?"
He's mystical; churchgoers say he's mystical. Headlines: Damn Mystic. He pens The Equation.
2.) Mathematicians laud the enormous brevity
3.) Poets argue its terse verbosity.
4.) Folks, in town (the Reverend's) and elsewhere, are stunned.
5.) So, perfect—all-encompassing.
"Poetry? "The Eternal Now?" "A story?"
Ebullience, thick Hellos—How are yous?
Strangers dropping groceries to copulate in the streets. Seniors protest the merriment:
"Never leave the bed!"
It's a black hole—collapsing—denser and denser—piercing Earth's crust. Black Hole National Park opens. People thumb crosses and prayer beads, chant, sing, propose, be wed, scatter mortal remains, drop soppy condoms, parking tickets in the hole. Parking's an issue. Swallowing Earth's core it gathers magnetism. The moon unhinges, inches, glides and barrels toward Earth. People flock to break acoustic guitars. The moon looms larger, LARger, LARGER. Teenagers hold vigils. Seniors laugh, sip coffee, read the paper. "Where's ambiguity?"
Women pull hair from their heads. People—ordinary people—fling themselves from cliffs. Dive under traffic.
was a finalist in Glimmer Train
and New Millennium Writings
competitions, has work forthcoming in Soft Cartel Magazine
and appears in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Five:2:One Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review
and Gone Lawn
amongst others. As well as his website, you can find him on Twitter @tylercdempsey"