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Climate Change

 
Prat falling,

& rising again & again

–Rain pours everything into its patter
 
 
Weather acapella on dark stage,

or in concert w thunder & lightning

–front row, center—

Rain doesn’t hold back

. . .

from drizzle to

downpour,

Rain renews

–on the DL for future flowers

–in your face for fresh-washed car, and

d’raining though it is

Rain bows

when its through

sky-written reminder

of nascent bloom

 

Snow drifts, though

–clingy at first

when you brush snow off,
 

Snow gives you the cold shoulder

–back

& breath–

chilling all spoken

–Snow permeates

puffs out clouds that snuck inside—

Snow’s got game

.

 .

.

men,

fort,

& balls

–sometimes, balls–

(when it gives a sleet)

snow

–throws down

 

Sun’s more industrious

at day’s end

Sun sets-
 

-up for the morning.

(Croissant moon

w black cosmos)

Sun sweeps stray rays

under cloud rugs,

Sun paints them.

Lines them.

Fluffs them.

Sun fusses over clouds

so much

clouds disappear

–for some quiet time—

when they see Sun coming, &

conspiratorially,

Sun winks

–as it clocks out

 

A Month of Some Days

 
Like really bad

toilet

(paper)

humor

we have broken up w

everyone. . .

simply

e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e

including that a**hole

our erstwhile everyone

disliked

–and has—

(like opinions)

added to handbasket

(already brimmin’

w the unhygienic version of hell)

 

ditching handbasket, then

in favor of forklift,

(and pitchfork accessory: step off, I say, step the f*rk off)

we’ve purchased

conciliatory comfort

food by the pallet

(emergency rations)

& bunkered in for some

undeserved

“me” time

(rationale: emergency)

unhinged by sudden surfeit of deprivation

 

snapping selfie

after

cell fee

–temporarily waiving in mirrors–

we’ve squandered

personal daze spanning spectrums

(soothing solitude to demoralizing desolation)

going

up↑

 up↑

  up↑

w

  down↓

 down↓

down↓

time

looking for that

flattening

of a

(bell)

curve

ball

–the one a divided & fed up to

^here^

world

lobbed–

on the off chance

we’ll miss

 

–forgetting

those drowning

polar bears. . .

 

Cell-fee

been in a spiral

since virus went viral

my livelihood taken away

while stress relief gym class

is closed by the Big Brass

no movies

no concerts

no plays

 

though much needed “me” time

is generally sublime

enforcing it renders its glow

an offshoot of bright screen

featuring newstreams

which content is focused on woe

 

I wonder what measures

we’ll turn to when pressure

to flatten the curve tapers off

if full body condoms

and masks will solve problem

of airborne, and there borne

or not.

 

if dating on dot coms

will stay there, not go on

to meeting in person at all

since droplets don’t travel

through sites, threads, or channels

through video conferencing calls

 

if you paired up

pre-dating pandemic

you’re probably panicking less

since 6 feet is same breadth

as depth for you in death

a distance unsocial…at best…

Mirror Mirror: on written wall

 

short on face masks,

our inner freaks

dressed up for

the occasion

—of no occasion—

no real holiday at all. . .

 

—came none

—came masses

 
 

costumed as

Munch’s Scream, as

American Hoarder, as

Motor Mouth Rehash

& Corporate Cold Shoulder

running riot

virtually the same

—quick like bunnies—

—not at all—

despite some imbalance of hands clasped to cheeks. . .

despite the difficulties talking in transit presented. . .

despite the poorly timed dismissal of underlings

—affront missing immediate audience. . .

 

descending on approved Orwellian destinations

by the meted thousand

—like herded sheep—

we dumped pets

selectively “concerned”

(woefully ignorant)

invested in

—toilet paper—

the dog-eat-dog mentality pervasive

(all regal beagles

enthroned for the foreseeable future)

collected eggs

by the dozens,

by dearth of farmhands

(that nascent next)

and ammo, too

—LOTs and LOTs of ammo

(a new slant on a rising curve)

vigilant about those 6 feet

—away!

—and under!

with you

(from me)

papering our own abodes

—behind electric fence—

egging our own visages

—behind screened Windows, bitmapped & blueprinted—

loading our own rifles

—behind dwindling rights—

sugaring our own tanks

(with stored supplies)

behind untanked

gas

—unmasked—

 

since face masks

were in such short supply. . .

Springs

I consulted flower

oracles

—petal’ing hope—

peered into polished crystals

— factory-formed orbs—

scanned sky & stars

—horoscopes imagined by better-paid staff writers—

flipped cards

—playing tarot solitaire—

asked young people

—who didn’t have to be nice—

and old people

—who did—

I agonized over monosyllables

—chapter-length in analysis—

believed in belief

—then didn’t—

forged faith

—then couldn’t—

dreamt darkest dreams

—in dissolution—

and in that abyss,

fostered

—reason—

last Rodeo

Apocalyptic horses

have left the barn

–too late to close that door!

Gates, too

proving once & for all the daily  Apple

didn’t keep spin doctors away after all

–with the exception of PPO’s & their fabled live receptionists–

and the ultimate Abyss looms

(already woven in time)

 

as the World churns

–social media froths–

glutted as Romans

disgorging from vomitoriums

–en masse—

strapping on

newsfeed

to stress-feed

the populace

–only 1% of whom

have paper to waste

–to throw into the Void

(zuck that Fuckerberg, anyway)

 

oh, what

Wicked

Web

Weaves

(what! what?)

in patchwork of infinite

Bermuda Triangles

–a Nowhere Land

where simply Everyone is. . .

falling in & out of holes

like

so many!

whack-a-moles

–the number 1 question

a Jeopardy stigma-

Ta!

(oh Jesus—not you)

That’s the wrong answer!

Or at least phrased incorrectly. . .

don’t you know semantics are

simply Everything?

(what is Everything?)

 

–are magic mantras

stirring the pot,

feeding the frenzy,

circling the schools

–Nobody entered,

yet Everyone attends

 

most fail. . .

are failing

–flailing about in a world gone mad

chased by horses

all too aware

of mystery meat enterprises

–a feat brought to you & facilitated & available for 2 day delivery

(by the Net)

. . .

Yes, that same Net

. . .

that Net that renders

escape

from the Abyss

–impossible.

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