Self-Inflicted Dodo Dada

A dusty path toward deliverance after a club on the head, a dark hour, a black age—

Quashed then regained. Diverted, re-charted, and reoriented

The crags and canyons—vertiginous—skirted. The roiling water. Up ahead the fog-smoke.

We live beneath the heat dome once a year—but the duration metastasizes—

At the terminal hour we’ll live beneath the heat dome year-round as feedback loops unspool their violence

In ineluctable gyres—followed by the exhalation of a bated agonal breath.

What I’m Reading:

“my disapproving mother tells me
nobody wants to read poems…
…no one has ever heard of such a thing as a wealthy poet…
…I decide to write the poem
to be poor and obscure

it will be a poem of defiance…”

—Laura Thiels / “Armeisenverteilungsmaschine”