the Rock’ docs’ dictate

we can swelter in place. . .
 
 

–no beach allowed

unless as moving target,

–no gathered crowd

unless it’s policed,

–no trips around

unless to ma & de∙pop’s stores

–wear masks

buying masks

where

buying into

is heavily encouraged

–by means of

socially suffocating pressure

& raised eyebrows

–the only expression left

and

be∙wildered at best,

yet we

be caged at worst. . .

furiously tapping keyboards

(mind controlled mute)

instead of intuition

(too retro)

–thanking the hosts

(of event 201)

((a party Gates didn’t crash))

–for protecting

vir∙us

us

and instilling

vir∙us

us

with the

fear of

GOP

GOD.

I am

the only thing

keeping you in this world

–by degrees of separation–

alive

it seems important

I seem important

by virtue

of the mad Dash

shared

& gauntlet run

–ellipses now–

my stutter implies a more

that isn’t

still I

preserve your isness

in my own

–a fragile offering held close with both hands–

looking out through

eyes colored

you

taking in through

views shaded

you

listening with

your attention

–I hear a different song

a million piece mosaic

firing in my mind that’s

set to better background music. . .

a kaleidoscope

picture

as predictably

changing

as it is

ephemerally

formless

as it lends

precious

meaning

to all that’s

fleeting

–our spirit

careening

closer to the

Void

in a field pocked

& rife with weeds

a woman without flower

watches

–floating filaments

considers

–dandelions before name

Turning, she

recalls

those golden wishes living,

as hope wafts by

–like death

her

Dali dream

–reforms

. . .

melting,

morphing

it

reforms

. . .

–swinging

stems & leaves.

 
it’s harder to crush ants

these days

wiping out their rank & file
 

from sill to slop

paper toweling, oh. . .

how many?

a hundred?

two?

without really

considering the kill. . .

without eyeballing

their collectivism

–an observation requiring

readers few retrieve—

that community unity breaks down

divided by even an inch

let alone 6

(metric measure included)

and their sense of direction

is masked

under blasts

of Raid

. . .

more than just an expression,

their back & forth

with crumbs

from counter

–heady booty indeed—

is a

total team effort

(and no doubt, hard labor)

a reward

that leaves me

undiminished.

it’s harder to kill ants

these days,

–at loose ends–

the magnification

of such an act

is

unavoidable.

 
you have to ask yourself. . .

in what way has the Internet improved the world?

the ability to say anything that
 

comes to mind

when it comes to mind

–in the heat of anger

–the knee-jerk of retaliation

–the flush of infatuation

to people you’ll never meet?

people lacking face

–so there’s no losing it—

and even vegans cannabilize faceless folk in

“good” conscience

possessed of a voice

that screams

(and echoes)

(and parrots)

soundlessly

typing, typing, typing

–in stereo

in a world where no one listens

everyone eavesdrops

the deafened muting

of all that matters

–unheard.

I wanna drop off the edge of Google

disappear into a different Void

–out of habit & forces that be with

U

R

L

an unlicensed Abyss

that doesn’t pop-up everywhere I go

–know my location–

notify &

newsletter me,

track &

stalk me,

mine &

sell me,

or even bring me cookies. . .

I wanna different kind

of tale

–one that doesn’t wag

a dog so big & black

& bleeding

it muzzles me

jerks me

by leash &

law,

by one &

millions,

by power &

profit

so obscene it’s its own religion. . .

I wanna drop off

the edge of Google

–frees myself for

posterity

where Snowden

means tucked in,

where NSA

is literature,

where people live &

breathe

–thumbnails ripped off

like brutal keepers

of cats.

He was my magic sun

–and I, his abracadabra

“lovely” assistant in too small gown

working on spec,

I made sure he shone and glittered…

–honing hocus pocus

& bait & switch

with absolutely

no slap & tickle

–I attended in the void.

He was my magic sun

–the pulley man for his own curtain

shady fact to which I blinded myself

–I was the woman behind scenes

created in his image & for it,

a backdrop of heart and soul

I was a revolving wheel in line with pitched knives

–a target discarded under fire.

He was my magic sun

–and I, the woman he sawed in half

for gaping audiences filled w shills

& indentured admirers

–spirit destined for decimation & dissemination

I wasn’t even a sacrifice.

the fabulous and faithful thrown from stage

in bloodless bath,

I became the 3 breasted woman

–and bearded—

for that time

(of ridicule)

by flat-earthers

(unaware of subtext)

& tie-a-yellow string theory …

I was …

I was …

I was the magic sun

–and he forgotten charm

an encore shelved & sealed off

from white rabbits

& neat, hatted men…

he was the heckler

–fronting rose

(with chameleon’s adaptive coloration)

of disbelievers.