Apoplepsi

The anger that knows no satiety, ground pebbles of auto glass scatter about as the hands go up to god, to strangle god, if they could reach him, to blow into black claws constricting not the neck there is no neck, but the cloudy mass of abstracted hope that is trapped in the atmosphere, which names are mouthed onto, any of which will not explain to the police the bellow of ballooning gall which escapes and continues and seemingly can't stop, as kicks and blows meet the quarterpanels and windows, as if the head could be wrenched from the neck and thrown in protest as they shoot a spiderweb with a fishhook into the body and shoot volts through it and every synapse is enthralled by itself being open and the crash toward the road is the fit falling away, but it will gather again like counting to a number it is rewarding work to get to.