Four Poems

Zone

There is a new strain, and as the off-air commentator says, it does indeed appear somewhat dodgy. Back to our shell--- second door to your left just past the men’s room. That’s okay, it’s called the future, was to be expected, don’t act so surprised, Rod Serling wasn’t. Authorities didn’t discover any advanced examples until the post-emergency landing, which wouldn’t have warranted emergency status if they hadn’t known what they knew at the time. By then it was all over the airwaves, or whatever waves that were still waving. Uh oh, kill the lights, recreation period is over. This variant is so cheeky, and mouthy, it will no longer be ignored. It’s here for the long haul. Just like you and me, only slightly altered.

Choice

Otis is back, doing the adult thing, and considering doing the parent thing. “It will be interesting to watch,” said the off-screen commentator. “Ever feel like your algorithm doesn’t understand you?” Otis asks me. His girlfriend is the brains behind the current fetishization of birthday cake, gets a piece of every lip gloss and candle sold. They are financially secure, a perfect juncture in time to spawn a new friend. Otis worries his seasonal affective disorder is hereditary. His lady friend fears it will slow her down (she strives for hypo-mania). She also isn’t convinced that she wants to manufacture a family with someone who calls her his lady friend. “Partner sounds like we live on separate horses!" admonishes Otis. Tonight, his mother watches from behind their curtains, texting various trusted advisors. "Why is he writing prose when he said he wanted to write poetry?" she asks her osteopath, the one who informed her that belly fat is the ultimate killer. He replies with a shrugging emoji, then turns off his notifications. Otis turns up whatever device is appropriate for cocktail hour. Lady Friend is doing child’s pose, or is it downward dog? “Let’s not and say we did!” Otis screams over the dub step as he mixes a drink. To be continued.

Opportunity

Doone and Beak enter the picture reluctantly. Following their discovery of the perfect flower girl for the ornery lech--- and her instantaneous rise to stardom--- Hollywood beckoned, and soon they relocated to a provenance-laden case house in one of the canyons. They spend their days hiking various vistas looking for hybrids; human/alien and or human/AI--- the so-called “beautiful people” with perfectly synchronized faces and the occasional gap tooth. At night they storm the clubs and dance amongst the many prospects. They are blessed with a discerning eye, which cannot be bought, unless you have shit tons of offshore money. “We are looking for a Jane Doe type.” Of course. They work hard, barely sleep and are known in the industry as iconoclasts. They wear sun protection 24/7. They will never go under the knife, or be injected into, but keeping this high moral ground means existing in a constant state of preventative living. Constant hydration? Check. Daily cleansing, detoxifying and peeling? Check. They keep their facial expressions down to the bare minimum. Once they’ve squirreled away a substantial nest egg they are going to return to New York, ditch the sunblock and go back to being the natural fun-loving beauties they were born into being.

Product

Chatter over the picket fence about weapons of mass destruction. No longer all the rage, but perhaps we can push a pin in that: the beginning of the end. The neighbors went all out this year: fairy lights, fountains, flamingos. You can look but not finger. Our mid-century modern predecessors informed us that the reconnaissance mission was well underway. We were out of frame but had friends in high places. Additional dialogue was provided by twenty-four hour talking heads, some soon to be disgraced, you know who I’m talking about. Debris floated down from the mid-air collision. A voice jumped out of a device that you had thought you had turned off. Stuff like that happens a lot these days. Just waiting for the pin to drop. Or bomb.