Big straddled dry earth, sighed


a pristine lake

atavistic fishes

flurried, gaping for hooks.

People prayed for Big’s sake.


Big, tumescent, crowed. Big


bid frigid mud

wake, open joy;

A shout, a cry, a thrust.

Nine moons rounded the child

Big spat out: people’s Boy.


Said Big: crown Boy your prince.

They did. Boy spoiled

himself with bold

conceit: took himself for Big.

Said Big: string your bastard

up. People wrung Boy cold.


Big wept, turned cities where

temples wrote high

Big’s name to seas,

where floated game

and horses grieving for

clover. Big watered over.

Sinking people bubbled pleas.


Big relented. Dry land

maculate, rose

to greater height,

bereft of those

Big relied on. Now Big

awoke dead souls; said fuck,

buy, sell, sleep, steal, pray, fight.




Big rested one thousand suns

’til some stench crept

through Big’s old dream,

noxious, chiding.

One half  burned the

other half. Some died

Some prayed. Smoke noosed Big’s scream.


Big clouted that pretense;

Thunder coughed, sun lapsed,

Big’s rain scored

flames people tended

with corpse and corpse.

Big rained to no recourse.

Fire fed, people painted Big’s Face

On killing wall, killed more.


Big admired such fierce

determination. Big

brought back the dead

to burn again.

People appreciated

Big’s generosity.

People scribbled, wrote books,

words they said Big said.


Big heard raucous shouts

from some Big used to love:

Great Big great lie.

Big’s flames, Big’s floods

they ascribed

to wind, concomitant

currents whirling in Big’s Ocean.

Wordless, Big lay down to die.  




Big keened a million eggs

cracking out chicks

one million stones

worrying  to

dust. Still the taunting shook

Big to Big’s lucent bones.


Big now beckoned blackness

wordless soundless

tasteless fruitless

naught and nothingness and night.

Night now comes:  not a star

to mourn Big’s new muteness.



by Mark Burgh


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