Memories, a form of imagination or indignation,
I'm not sure which, continue to trod the corridors
of backstories, a renewed connection
to a lifetime of incidentals
demarcated with wax pencils
as the elements of style voice irrecoverable
from Fritz Lang's 1927 Metropolis,
with Brigitte Helm doing a robot's
seductive power and the dangers of AI . . .
juggling chapters as a portal into the imagination
of time's loosey-gooseiness
the manor house ringing iffyness . . .
Shockingly blatant . . . the indifference
feathering far too many nests
flopping around in culverts
trying to alert gandy dancers
and knock-knock jokers to the reality
of flesh-eating bacteria invading
kettle holes and streaming services
causing massive fragmentation
and higher-than-high rates of confusion and dementia . . .
Pick a flick or enter the water with care
and be sure to arm yourself with a designer duffel bag
though I'm not sure why . . .