I keep thinking about the Dadaists
caught between an end and a beginning.
Some launched green apples,
and still others self-inflicted wounds.
I’m trying to put myself in their place
and feel what was at stake,
butting up to a lack
Here in Florida death creeps north
but the real slime flows down
climate change doesn’t exist
but red tide is natural.
It doesn’t take a washed up whale shark to know
death controls the narrative.
Reports are coming in from everywhere.
The future arrives every moment
too fast to absorb the pain of loss.
The time when absurdity was a joke
seems quaint now.
“Revolution” is just another word
in one of those things
black white and red all over.