when times are tough, make art

I have all this work I have written over the years but never share with anyone. This is error. Art is meant to be put into the world, not hoarded up Dickinson-like for some postmortem discovery. Here is just something I recently wrote. I am going to try to put pieces of regularly without comment. I hope you will take some satisfaction in them.

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Black tanks whir toward oblivion
empty shells explode on the street
the rain falls at night like a flood
consuming all with dust.
nothing meaning nothing.
The Dead are awake, watching us sleeping.
Late into the night, they
raise their ghostly eyes.
a cool draft of supernatural air
flows through the fan's wheels
whirring.
the night falls like a food,
filling the streets with molasses;
everything is sticky and fused together like hot iron.
nothing separate from the only thing,
the Universe putting forth her silent mysteries like a holy Virgin untouched, untainted,
and living on even after Death,
forever watching the living shuffle forward
in what they presume is the beginning of the End,
or do not conclude at all, being human,
and therefore to err, to be Divine.