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”