Location, San Francisco, CA, USA

Praying at the Altar of Nam Jun Paik

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.