JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Morning again. Plumbing still works.

A mist of nightmare, hazy, hazier, something

about cars. Why is it always cars, accidents,

breakdowns, speeding tickets?

 

Dow is mixed after a week’s panic. Last night

watched ‘Fantasia’, sixty years old, brilliant

today as when it was conceived. Zeus and

his thunderbolts, Mickey waterlogged, overwhelmed

by legions of marching broomsticks, Tyrannosaurus Rex

devouring Pterosaur and how the planet turned

its tide and buried scattered jigsaw bones.

 

All seems so transient. Strata piled for

reconstruction. Impossible to guess where

remains may lie, to find the missing pieces. The trick

is not to care too much. Interludes that seem so now

were/will be replayed again under far whirling suns.

 

Can’t help wondering. How would Walt choreograph

global warming if roused by a falling glacier’s

kiss from his cryogenic sleep?