Public Republic

Dean Crawford

Photo: VMOS

The sky is falling, something yells at me. I stop dead in my tracks so
it won’t run into me. Whatever it is looks like a chicken with its head
cut off. It’s running around in crazy circles, yelling its fool head off at
everyone about the falling sky. Whatever it is spins clear out of sight

like a top yelling: Late for the falling sky, late for the falling sky…

I can’t believe it, man, I’m late for the falling sky. I’ve always wanted
to see the falling sky. I’ve got questions: How does the sky fall, first
of all? And second, what’s been keeping it up there all these years?
What does it all mean, anyway, this falling sky?

Chaos rains from the falling sky and I run. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.