It is automatic.
It is viral.
It attracts itself to itself.

The leaves in the backyard glisten.
We huddle by the fire in the kitchen.
A voice in the radio in the electric car tells us to listen.
It howls in our headsets, “There’s no point in bitchin’!”

The suction of Netflix, of Hulu, of Prime
consumes the imagination of the masses,
as the moment for us to make real time passes.

The bronze flesh under the dull light undulates.
A serpentine movement rises behind the wall.
Her breast is dry, the explosion deafens us all.

The beast in the numbers is counting to ten.
We name it: “Thing;” it tells us when. Thing.
There is no such thing. The bird in the tree refuses to sing.
She reasons the rhyme is insufficient, of course.

“I could have told you,” the old man intones.
He wraps his robe around the wooden stem.
“It always reduces to ‘Us Versus Them.” No.

A shark was spotted in the frigid waters.
Sam the surfer entered the waves, undaunted.
A thick fog descended. The forest felt haunted.
Rats were discovered in the attic and basement.

The gods summoned a hero to commence a quest.
A sign appeared, marking the End of the West:
A salmon on fire, hovering over the river; “Yes,”
She cried, “This must stop; a suicide, a child…
A needle; a clock. The wind from the Mountain
blows in every direction. Thunder. Lightning. Shock.”
Every tiny creature hurried to hide, or sought protection
in the shadows. Her gold hair was shining, eyes
ablaze, “None shall be spared. Each structure
will be razed. I warned you once. I did, again.
You ought to have heeded my calls, and returned
to the fold, but you were too proud, your heart too cold.
Now you will suffer, as never before. You will find none
of peace, only war. Sickness will come - it will not leave.
The people will learn what it is to grieve. Still, there will
be no reprieve. Children will go hungry. Every face
will be sad. The Sun in the heavens will darken.
A mighty roar will blast through that hole in your chest.
You hope you might escape, but you will fall with the rest.
No relatives will lay your body to rest. No stone will tell
where is your grave. None shall save you, no gentle hand
will wipe your tears. No soft chant will allay your fears.
Your mouth will burn from thirst. You will shiver, you
will grimace. No preacher will list your good works.
No friend will sigh and shake sand on your casket.
No bread will ever again fill your basket. No lover.
No joy. No prayer. No girl. No boy. No seconds,
no minutes, when you breathe out the last of your air.
No blossom will adorn your once beautiful hair.
In the dark you will be installed, forever to remain.”

Shasta Series #1 /1200 x 1200 pixels/ pattern

*
Unstable, the plate shifts on its bed.
Events begin to come to a head.
The news, unreliable, turns to the Fed.
Chaos dismembers the corpse in the shed.

The freight continues to its destination.
The Queen in her chambers grows impatient.
The Prince ignores orders not to leave the palace.
The Clown mimics the King, and is beheaded.

The child found a coin at the foot of the stairwell.
A double-sided man worth a cheap loaf of bread.
The drunk in the alley thinks he’d be better off dead.
The gutter is seething, the lights turning red.

Not once in the night did the police appear.
The Crown and the Bomb, a cup of flat beer.
No grub in the pantry, no rags on her bones.
The keen blade in his fist, sharp as a claw.

A crowd gathered in the square, only to dispel
when the witch flew on her broomstick
by the Man on the Moon. We waited for morning,
but the day would not come. It knew better.

A message was sent to a faraway wizard:
hurry, kind sorcerer, please make haste to our town!
A plague is upon us! Death is all around!
The mage replied, through traditional means -

“You are on your own, and always will be!
When did you last contact me, for good or ill?
Why should I now run to you, in your affliction?
Your despair is mute, your trials make no sound.

This affliction shall pass, and you along with it!
A grievance is bound to the loss it precedes.
Make no mistake. An affront cost you an alliance
you sorely need. The monster who hunts you

will not be appeased. Every soul in your town
is lost, you will to a person be brought down.
I promise you nothing, for you have cast your lot.
In faith it is over, no act can avert it. Be still.

The widow wept loudest. She was most alone.
The smoke from her chimney turned grey, then black.
None dared knock at her door, or peek in her window.
Afraid they all were to learn of her fate. It was too late.

The air soon was heavy with stench. Her sons
sat in the park on a bench. They only could gaze
at her poor cottage and wonder what awfulness
befell her. She would not emerge, and none look inside.

A hundred homes emptied, whole neighborhoods abandoned.
Where the sad folk are gone to, no mouth would tell.
Footsteps were heard in the streets of the city. Soldiers
march with no song or tattoo. The boot is on our neck.

Guns boom in the distance. The evenings are lit.
Conflagrations on the horizon line, jets fly overhead.
Divisions of tanks. Squadrons of horsemen. Farmers
bring their cattle, pigs and chickens inside the gates.

The cemetery is filling. The wounded wail and shout.
The fate of our nation is suddenly in doubt. Whispers
abound, about a powerful enemy to the East. Hushed
rumors you hear, about invasion from the South. Terror

grows in the gut. The countryside belongs to bandits.
The schools are shut, the market, the theater.
Ignorance and loathing abound. Suspicion is rampant.
We wonder Who is our foe, so formidable and powerful?

Mary says, “I saw a woman, asleep in her car.
It was parked in the lot, next to the bazaar.
The windshield was covered with mud and straw.
A crow perched on the roof, croaking ‘CAW CAW!”

“What to think of it, what does it mean?” Jane says.
The silence that followed was laden with dread.
“Her husband was Bill, the brother of Ned.
Both joined the army, enlisted, and are killed.

Shasta Series #1 /1200 x 1200 pixels /simulation

*

Riots and food banks became commonplace.
Notorious grifters assumed high office
in their pimp suits. The Barons mocked everyone
with their finery, their wealth. We starved.

In Winter the snow fell from the sky. Ice
broke the power lines. Some burned books
just to survive. In the cold you pray for heat.
Without fruit and biscuits, you settle for meat.

The cops took to torture, if a radical dared
speak his mind. The Judge throws you in a cage,
if you beg for a basic wage. Don’t tell your sister
that you ain’t goin’ along. She traded herself for a blanket.

Horrid stories of carnage in Chicago. Baltimore
is a battle zone. The plague of ODs destroys a generation.
Foreclosures a thousandfold worse than Trail of Tears.
NYC and Cali push refugees in droves to haven or hinterland.

When all glimmer of wishing is gone, finally
comes the Champion, in his Duster, pistols blazing.
His name is MILO or DIM TIM. He is an avatar,
or invention, concocted for this episode perfectly!

His shield is kevlar, his teeth are ivory white, stainless.
He has night vision, all the latest contraptions. Milo
giggles as he torches moneylenders in broad daylight.
Gauntlets on burly Popeye forearms. Don’t blink.

The indomitable Tim, to our rescue! A splintering stare,
exhorting the masses to victory! Pummeling the gross evil
with rights, lefts, kicks, knees, elbows! Shoeshine! Milo
grabs a Kali stick to hit the bastard age in the mouth!

He summons Nessie, & the Abominable Snowman,
Quetzalcoatl, Bigfoot, UFOs, all the scary freaks
on the side of the Righteous, to crush the cynical!
No brick will be unbroken in any palace court.

We come for you! We are many, you are few!