17 Seasons

down to the dickle,

our minds on Spanish guitar

pointing at the dark sky 

comet Atlas gleaming the cube from afar.

spot green scene, we turn, fall fickle

reciting verse in the park.

beautiful words from our heart

count casting out Chaldean 9, nines

descending from the empyrean. 

echoes reverberate noetic minds

vibrate. rhythms keep offbeat time

so it can remain holy.

seven worlds from terrestrial,

the hater of life moves slowly

in recognition of the intelligible lynx.

behind number 17 north of Zealand

under the 8 pointed star, it rides

from the fountains of the center.

it flows splendid dividing zonic summits

where the sun begins to play peekaboo

with cottony clouds and Saturn.

on the open field of the collective,

embrace the better angels of our nature.

suddenly come soft rain

hints of petrichor, smell of ground. 

our sun seems to rise... 

when it is us spinning on the solar breeze.

stretch the order of time, the revelator,

a fog comes over the investigator,

look at the mountain falling from the sky

burning towards the Milwaukee trench, 

granting seasons unable to identify the star.

p=perverse in our probability of wrongness. stench.

of carbon and sulfur! manipulated. massaged. misstated.

stat! solids, liquids have us satiated and inebriated

throwing out the abstemious diet break

fast, remembering the hushed lenten squawk 

of the parrots of San Francisco. Eucalyptus

coyote hills and step into the four winds blowing

in the direction of their writing. if only for a moment

past is down, events flow up with the hawk

of a downwind dog month smelling of asafoetida. 

there are signs in the heavens on the island

but we could not stay in the mountains forever.

there is little one can do to prepare for unexpected change

except to recognize and stay afloat.

trajectory. curves on-axis. morbidity. currency exchange.

oil war. run down the painted. run the Lyon steps, 

17 seasons in one day till moonrise.

beside the helical king Jupiter, what will expire?

data collected. let the black swans carry us away

weighing new normal risks, exercising fear 

of this make-believe. the one returning,

the returning one on golden-winged Garuda

in fiery remnants, rainy liquid metal.

souls ascending through the pains of birth

updating worldviews roll in the lavender,  

pieces of computational code

produce rapid shock doctrine. mind surprise,

for an entire generation suddenly remote-first

quickening in the lateness of the world,

imagine never smelling the sweet wisteria

or hot summer moss on the kudzu,

unprotected zooms, a nose some might never toast...

heard together, each player plays Bolero 

at home by themselves. what blue are you?

there is less rumbling on the surface,

as the natural world has been turned upside down.

less air and noise pollution, the oceans are quieter,

seismic shakes detected as the comet passes.

derailed. grounded. flatlined. fever clusters!

stand queue. stand six feet apart masked.

city soundscapes changed, nature takes a break.

the birds seem louder, trilling and squawking

even in their dwindled numbers. Do the migrating

whales wonder where we are? talking

extinction rebellion... frequencies of their voice 

off balance on the enduring axis. pyres and graves

tracked where the flipping entropies run with poise

against productivity as the universe declares: 

chase bulk data, identify the unidentifiable. 

foraging weeds to add to the freekeh,

chew on that Socratic comeuppance. 

flipping through your green screen, 

17 seasons between feelings, fleeting anxiety, 

fear of impending doom lifts to rational acceptance.

paintings in the sky, every day a different canvas sets.

will there be an Artemis generation, ever bright?

to be in touch with the astonishing light of one’s own being, 

one must not lose sight of the light.