Tomorrow bends into
the marine layer with
spread across an imitation
Mesopotamia. Chops mountains to
hillocks, drain lakes to beds. Retires.
Chase scenes mock
an earlier, louder you in San Francisco.
then, at home years later, the sound
curved near quiet, separated
by the thrilling adventure
of internal decline. Tomorrow is a fable
with darting eyes, a remote control
changing hands, recording
stories that ship off to an absurd
kingdom posed as democracy.
Its salted oceans are granular. They
wear Petrochemical coveralls.
Back here, the channel changer,
the logline and the endless cycle
of entertainment brood over
powerhouse happy hours,
images debilitating as they
shift. They pixelate, then rise again.
1 October 2015