Gunboat/day-glow/flock of birds? Drones?
Lotus blossom’s sharp relief/snub-nosed catfish/
Images. Fast succession. Blink, flashes/Fluxus/forty years
Since the dawning of Aquarius, we are as static as a frozen psychedelic heart
Petrified into a concrete block. What choice do we have?
Succession/let’s quit/Global to drill bit /Amphora to inkwell. The long view
Just got myopic/School of fish with no eyes in sight
The turtle indecipherable/The Mississippi flows as muddy as ever
I am losing ground/Art hasn’t saved us, or, is it saving us now?
I’m lost. Praying at the altar of Nam Jun Paik. Afraid to glance
Sideways, forward, back. Flock of birds, black as drones.
I’m lost, riveted to screens of horrors, images in blink. Succession.
The Muskogee shivered when backward the river flowed.
The New Madrid fault shook the ground but that’s just science.
The natives saw a sign: Tie Snake, river god of the Mississippi
Writhed, the god of order and chaos straddled the divide
Between upper and lower worlds, river and sky. It was time
To fight off the Brits. Espanol was written on the wall.
The Spanish put the nail in the coffin. Free guns.
Talk about divided. While the Muskogee were perseverating
The Europeans, hell-bent on moving in, poised to drive a stake
In the new world, caught wind of the plan. Ambushed Muskogee.
The Battle of Burnt Corn. Turn the other cheek? Huh?
What choice but to fight back?
We resist, us needles in a haystack. Strike words, dollars, comedy, wit.
Consider this: Three battles and fifteen years later, Andrew Jackson
Orchestrated a death march. Punishment for forty-six thousand Muskogee, Choctaw, Seminole.
All for a backward river. Punished. Ripped like ivy cut from a tree trunk
Pulled from forests, rich swamps, marched to dusty, treeless Oklahoma.
Where nature had already wrought its dirty work
Delivered a drought that killed native grasses.
The Trail of Tears is our legacy. Climate change too. Predicted as far back
As Oklahoma. Science. The Cherokees lost a quarter of the tribe on the way.
What’s next, Mr. Trump? Nasty history repeats its vicious self.
Succession. Images too fast to grab. Fake news, a Mount Everest of lies
We grab an ice pick ax to claw through the bullshit. The Spanish manipulate the
Natives; the Russians the Ukraine’s; the Slave owners, the power grabs.
Blame! Blame! The finger pointing the match that lights the flame, incites
Blame! Hijab wearing, headscarf, yarmulke. What next? Baseball caps?
Brown telegraphs from California: We’re outta here (more or less.)
We don’t need no stinking badges! Or yellow stars!
Succession. The image advances, recedes.