A pen clogged with outer space.
Two sentences mud-wrestling.
King Myna, the grammarian,
sharpening a Phoenix quill,
dipping into the ink of an apocalypse,
employing a cataclysmic syntax,
a language with no word for word,
any sense of tense sent packing.

A mob of letters rioting,
looting vowels, ransacking verbs,
the downtown core burning
like a page in a novel.
Uptown yet to be written.

A cosmological penciling-in.
The scribblers' craft brought low,
writing like speech's silhouette,
then an adjective getting a last shot in,
a noun dragging a thumbnail
across its dirty great neck.

The bookworm turning.