A Lap Dissolve

She’s frozen in the web of a nascent season. The season of decay at the doorstep.

Summer is dead, she says, from the elevated ramp.

I’m blue about the blues, she says. I’m sorry, it all sounds the same—just different riffs.

I’m nonplussed—in pain—my achilles is driving me batty.

(Lap Dissolve)

Streaks of antelope white face black splotch—play for a dollar on the continental divide. Scenes of a concrete dance floor nibble on a beer bottle label, then drinking paint thinner at dinner. 

A picnic cleansing in these United Stockades military truncheons on our streets. Masked men in black trucks seeding mistrust and zip-tying us behind backs leading us into damnation—or black box countries currying favor—by our foisted wrists. 

Something’s gone amiss in this already far-askew country. 

Building-sized posters of the dear leader . . . backdropped half-dozen handgun monticules arched by automatic rifles . . . row after row after row.

Wow! What a place!

What I’m Reading:

The generally acknowledged truth that the world is going to hell should remind us that we do not currently live in Hell. 

— Rivka Galchen / “Unreasonable” / The New Yorker