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. . .

if you stocked up on toilet paper. . .

or invested in toilet paper stock. . .

you’re

s*ittin’ pretty

right about now. . .

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—

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.

A fairer day

In Faraday

–so faraway

from web. . .

the weave

that traps

–in bits & apps–

in text &

tweets &

threads

But microwave

in kitchen–

staves

–off EM waves

from soul. . .

inside it’s me

I ask—

not Jeeves

–not Google

or

Echo

on plate

within,

I sit & spin

a winsome weave

unseen. . .

no post nor pin

required—

since

this hotspot

has no screen

and

now new

stream’s

all mine—

it seems

my dreams

are worn–

not torn. . .

in 2 by face

book posts—

in place

just me

(and some popcorn)

she was a story yeller

ONCE!

TWICE!

(and you know)

THRICE!

upon a time

and he,

a hard-to-her

musician

–lyric whisperer

–refrain mumbler

–and mime of melodies on tiny violin

(predating air guitar)

she was soothed by such

&

he inspired

(in the manner of iron lung)

inspired

–dogged attention

to detail most missed

(out of hearing frequency)

details

she played back

AT HIGH VOLUME

–guessing at beat

–tempo

–pitch

and reason

(for composition)

she wove staff

&

knit yarns,

CONVERTING hum TO CRESCENDOS

ever after.

listen my children

of a lesser

god in heaven’s

name what is your goal

posts can only take you so far

& away with social media blitz
 

krieg is just war

after all

. . .

in good time

of your life

lessons are learned

professing them are extra

credit to those inclined to listen

upping the ante

up in the manner of quality

–cntrl alt delete

–cntrl alt delete…