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Tomorrow is now that day . . . choked with mutations . . .

monochromatic landscapes soundtracked

by those who have missed the unfollowing underway gradually . . .

This too smacks of spam . . . drawn slowly and all that is new . . .

The numbers climb . . .

Wrapped uncontrollably in festive cloth no more . . .

Did you think essentials would move like languages

through the outer regions . . . missing from the latest tally? . . .

You bought into that too, yes? . . .

Introspection is a no-no in those skimpy moments

when all you can think about is the way it was . . .

Someone hit the override button suspiciously

sending trailers to editors prior to

an ever-increasing awareness that gravity will do us in . . .

You too were thrust into the mirror . . .

What business of chastisement stands aloof? . . .

Can you imagine beaches without knowing anything . . . really? . . .

Unrecognized priors dictate the future

with little happenstance in their arsenal of apps . . .

Notions based on fluff . . . what now? . . .

OK, dissect the speculation put forth sans disclaimer . . .

With the drum and bugle corps abandoned midstream

the kickstart was left flopping around on the shore . . .

Nothing of these toppled times but conjecture 

and far be it from anyone to suggest a workable alternative

though that might be a tad harsh . . .

You have the right to an attorney . . . as if that would make a difference . . .

Nora Attal and Elfie Reigate

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Begging the rhetorical question is a joke you carry
in your hip pocket to pull out in the wake of an auditionee

soundtracked by silence in the streets . . . 

The humor is lost . . . or so it seems . . .

No one wants to cross over . . .
The line is drawn in the white sand . . .
The problem launched . . . Can nothing be done? . . .
Eye-glitter duped . . . and so it remains to be seen . . .

Can you adjust the spectrum . . .

or are we locked as well into that pattern of denial? . . .

Far too many . . . uncatalogued . . .

Why now the cups and saucers? . . .

The sit-down drags on amid the fluster of angles

spun by major leaguers . . . or is that too my imagination? . . .

Mario Sorrenti

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Margins of error plague your daydreams . . .
You count to five slowly after a flash of lightening . . .
welcoming the dissonance of thunder
and you're inside an upright bass
walking the notes . . . someone somewhere running the changes . . .
Under the right . . . or, maybe wrong . . . circumstances, yes? . . .
The supermarket - masked - barks out specials
in concert with coydogs
who roam the woods at night
searching for orphans . . .
cataloging drops vis-à-vis correlations
between down time
and the uptick in shootings
over what some are calling the new normal . . .
But he's not reading the reports! . . .
The debriefings anachronistic . . .
You wanted to pick it up from there
but the bus stops have been decompressed
and stuffed into clichés with little afterthought . . .
And this is someone's finest hour? . . .

Germaine Dulac, The Smiling Madame Beudet (1923)

SUN SET

by Nancy Dyer

What does it take to let a sunset into your heart?

To NEVER FORGET the colors?

Why is it we only keep the bad memories?

We crave the “bad news.” And then we share it.

Why do we let “them” put the big “Corona Virus” picture on the screen all day long
impervious to what it is imprinting in our minds?

What it is creating?

Will we never think to replace it all with sunsets and rainbows?

It’s just a decision, isn’t it?

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Ramifications? . . . What ramifications? . . .
A show of hands . . . palms open . . .

continuing the conversation across lockdown months . . .

This requires a reset . . .
The script qua floorplan enough to carry you through
until whatever phase includes feeding the flame . . .

You immerse yourself in hospital beds

tallying sheets, pillowcases, blankets . . .

What happens next? . . .

As if the Questioner of the Sphinx had opened

the gates of hell . . .

Remind me when the time comes . . .

Cold water will be such a treat . . . followed by no idea . . .

The sound of your voice ups the ante . . .

fading in and out . . . people checking in . . . and all that . . .

I've lost count . . .

Look . . . a cat approaches . . . head bowed . . .

Germaine Dulac, The Seashell and the Clergyman (1928)

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The streets fill with consequences . . . and eBikes . . .

and soundscapes for tomorrow's ticket-holders

enamored of dissonance . . .

Of course the hard damage of pianos

when in a false moment

you reach out to blindsided razor scooters

hoping for the next best thing . . .

Inasmuch would be too much

so we drop back . . . as the water level

creeps upward . . . threats the size of the third factory . . .

You recall burned-out players

sequestered in abandoned fallout shelters . . .

strings attached . . . fretless necks . . .
rehearsing what-was-then . . .

feeling free to take whatever . . .

The cost is about to weigh in . . . with yet more

incidental information disguised as nothing of late . . .

You too should have been there in the crowded atelier . . .

the underpinnings . . . substantial by any stretch . . .

The streets . . . back to the streets . . . yes? . . .

Germaine Dulac

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A warm breeze off the water
thinks twice
after being t-boned by the smell of the city . . .
You are tempted to retreat
to the chapter on white sand
and blue surf
where you have been told
many have fled . . .
There is no escape . . .
Your style . . . like so many others . . .
has been retired . . .
your script redacted . . .
The alleged perps last seen
after shredding the wheels of a moving violation
circling a roundabout . . . hot on the trail
of knockoff designer face masks . . .
Identities are cloned . . .
The plague is with us . . . within us . . .

The 1918 Great Influenza

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The world fills with Eleanor Rigbys

buried without funeral . . . without music . . .

with fossilized smiles

while looters . . . making off with paper weights

disguised as MacBook Pros

demand compensation . . .

Barricades seethe with anger . . .

Your favorite things lie smashed curbside . . .

The healing grows incredibly slow

as if cells object to expending energy on a jalopy

en route to the scrap heap . . .

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? . . .