tropical hiatus

waking up to the dark (again), only to catch

a thick fog, of the tropics

full of an orange light - time mediaeval, primeval.

the pavement still hot from the day before

my daughter sleeps, as does her mother,

all hot weather funk in the sweaty sheets.

the river through the faucet is still crispy cold and chlorinated

coffee good today, the fridge gives rise to

legs that swing the creekboat down the spiral bridge smothered 

in the stench of roadkill, 

can’t see the animal, but 

it must be large, somewhere in the verge.

the river is deeyock low, rocks everywhere - the beaver's chute, dishes out one swim

and the white room going into the 50-50 zone on the island, the seam behind the DS, substantial. total immersion.

the dinosaur must be tunneling today, the sieve through the island pumps juice into the boil.

a day later, you can make the mid island move with ease, planing across the surges after getting a good glimpse of the deepness.

at the eddy’s turn, the whole river is going by, fast - the tide goes out, the cormorants dry in the sun, and the catfish slumber way down below.

something not for everyone

we are a nation of robots and we are number ONE

robots robots a nation of the robot, and we are number ONE

he sits there waving his hands, repeating himself

AUTOMATON

it is FUTURE NOW, 

AUTOMATION and CORPORATIONS took your jobs and I will take your PLOW

so I CAN PLOW your TROW

we are a nation of ROBOTS, in ORBIT and WE ARE NUMBER ONE!!!

something tells me times are strange

that which was made will be unmade, that which is unmade can be made again

but NOT THE SAME, NOT THE SAME

current existence is NOT PROOF OF PAST SUCCESS

NOT IT AINT NO IT AINT ! TO assert otherwise is to confuse GOLD with SNOT

how much less certain is the FUTURE, by those who say they know I AM NOT IMPRESSED

FOR WE ARE A NATION OF ROBOTS ROBOTS RONALD FUCKING ROBOTS aND

WE ARE NUMBER ONE!

a few weeks go by

you wake up to the sound of trucks passing overhead

the trees bending, the branches arching towards 

darkness is felt but the oceanic lifting

of the heavy sets is illuminated, stood up by the wind

you are lofted, soft, quilted even, stitched into the fabric of your seat

through this piece of dinosaurs melted down frozen and

reformed into the charging arc,

the island hasn’t moved but the violence of the water blowing

off of it is lifting you into the chunder-dome.

another morning, and the heron is sitting on the raft of garbage and strainers

suddenly plucking a fat fish out of the mess, and shaking the debris off

he swallows her whole,

before flapping off in front of us, maybe we help him hunt as our

dark shapes flush the unseen prey below.

and yet a different day, the beaver slaps at us in the darkness below the brookmont dam, and we run the strainer at the top of the gates wondering where the goddamn entrance is.

before that, three thousand blackbirds pass in an extended wing, burnt against the setting sun.

full stop. the water boils, speeds up, stops below the beltway, in the world’s largest drainage ditch, but the brilliance of the fading sun turns us into silhouettes, ghosts already, paddling into the inky blackness.

we are on the flatwater, fully gripped, hearing the dam get closer and closer, edging along the bank, subverting a beaver slide to our own purposes to get out of the flow.

running little falls at night, the one formerly known as no bolts has no drain plug, one of is blind, but with the island dark against the sodium bulbs of chain bridge, it’s the same as daylight, 12 feet at a time.

at Fletcher's the mud flats are low low, the playboats have a final splat, full circle; the river from sandy beach is played out.