It was Jung’s Red Book. The boy is irrelevant. Published in Atomic Fly-Swatter Vol. 1

You thunder, silver-tongued

about your alien planet

like a junkyard guard dog,

dislodge thick snarls from your throat,

taste the rusted air for fear.

I do not know the climate here.

I do not care to-

this wasteland is too crowded as it is,

there is no place for me to rest

among all these damn mirrors that reek of

restlessness and

wine.

If only I could close my eyes

and let the ancient howl of your spirit’s storm

engulf me,

make me have to remember

to breathe.

But I do not know the climate here.

I do not care to.