ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /19

If I am mute this opening sequence of September {a handful of days, perhaps, to recompose myself after overloaded//depletion of too*many*people//hurry—

winding//uphill pot-holed roads—in my claustrophobic//mercurial {silver} metal-box-chariot {epithet: Frightened Minnow Lost at High Tide}—

< < <

I may be sleepwalking through derailed/ugly conversations—

foraging in the obsessive-compulsive ghosts’ cobwebs—

for an ELIXIR to stand upright {though not even}—

scissoring out the names of the dead.

You must not take any of this personally

{but what choice do you have really?}—

the cumulative effect of the proliferating silk//cacophonous bluelit/backlit screens—

was simply—

enervating.

<  <  <

The holiday memo was email*bombed–on time COB Friday—to all involved parties {some Bcc-ed}—

but no one {including me}—really fucking cared.

<  <  <

I had been driving for too many days {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 carry to the Farmington River—expediently—

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.

{yes, September finds me quite {uncharacteristically} angry}}—

conducted with the skill of a virtuoso European conductor HIGH on street-grade CRACK.

<  <  <

Yes, it’s true I was flying high on different 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//binary {gender*fluid} sexuality//

self-asserted {finally} nomenclature {warrior name}—

to clean out//urge//expunge aforementioned COBWEBS–

in our collective unconscious—

when you caught me off guard–

with your frantic//–

–// EVERYTHING*IS*CRISIS phone call.

<  < <

Please forgive my NECESSITATED //

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 accordingly.

{{I’ll miss some of you.}}

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