/21 [from] iterations of summer [september]

/21

 

The holiday memo was email-bombed COB Friday to all

involved parties with some supervisors bcc-ed in, but none of

 

the workers fucking cared. Driving for too many days leaning into

the serpentine roads with cars following much too closely toward

 

a town that no longer existed, I texted you—asking to tape our worries //

splintered prayer boards to stones you should fasten to the hidden

 

river on the ancient map. . . but the cell towers were cluttered

with the aftermath

of another DOUBLE set {double bubble*gum*

style mass-produced} of

 

MASS {please note the irony} SHOOTINGS–

on the same fucking day—conducted with the skill of a

 

virtuoso European conductor HIGH on street-grade

CRACK. Yes, it’s true

 

I was flying high on polyphonous frequencies—

talking much too fast//frenetically—before the

 

inevitable underpass—collecting

torrential rains—a bi*product of

 

the catastrophic hurricane—for which the tourists weren’t smart

enough to evacuate. {When one pays for a desperately-

 

needed vacation on credit with 22% interest, the best

decisions aren’t always made.}

 

I was looking for the extra toothbrush for the

adolescent whose father might

 

IMPLODE again—because of the newly // non*binary

{gender*fluid} sexuality // self-

 

asserted {finally}; nomenclature

{warrior name}—to clean

 

out//urge//expunge aforementioned

COBWEBS—in our collective un-

 

conscious—when you caught me off

guard—with your

 

frantic//––// EVERYTHING*IS*

CRISIS* phone call.

 

Please forgive my NECES*SIT*AT*ED //

self-imposed quietude—

 

in the morning-garden light–

of this six o’clock hour.

 

There are some things I need to

 

get off my chest—in P=R=I=V=

A=T=E—while I scavenger-hunt

 

the missing clues—to share with

you later on your facebook timeline.

 

Adjust your privacy settings accor*ding*ly—

 

{{I’ll miss some of you.}}

 

to catch another

tidal wave*tsunami at the nu-

 

clear plant—trying to move

 

the frayed toothbrush through

the diaphanous cob*webs—

 

one leg in night-dream; O=N=E

foot

lost

i{n}

w{in}ter.

 

When we me*et, you

m{us}t

tell

me

Everything.

 

At the makeshi{f}t alt{ar},

the WEEP*IN*G

 

will{ows}

{w}ill es{sent}*i*ally sur-

 

render. . . .

 

three t{hous}an/d birds

{sh!}all

a*light.

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