A poem about the first party since my vaccination

Image by Sumanley xulx from Pixabay

For every nanosecond of our lives,
A randomizing atomizer scrambles a soul’s ingredients
And boils them to / a conscious vapor,
Hovering, hugging the eyes as I look at a taxi,
Approaching me. The driver says my name. “Steven?”

Strobing self-remembrance flashes the self,
In temporary spans, but by the zillions,

A prose-poem investigating the occupation of emergency dispatchers

Bucharest, Romania — February 11, 2020: Shallow depth of field (selective focus) image with 112 emergency number operator (Romanian version of 911) having a conversation with a distress caller — Photo by Mircea Moira from depositphotos

The cyclical bridge looping same days is the worst stagnation; motion without change, no outlet to adolescent Atlantis of timelessness, passes the same synaptic graffiti, burned on adulthood: a hoarder of emotional junk at a bus-stop, the number of the transit to weightlessness forgotten.

There’s another pass on the cyclical…


Based on true events

Wolfpack-collective unconscious, weaponized for war, surge with exhilarating camaraderie, webbed, snaring fear, devoured for strength by motley species of spiders known as “Marines.” Exhilarating camaraderie, de-weaponized for peace, narrows to one, my father. Remove the weaponized collective unconscious, and the war remains, in silence.

Beware the idyllic blue sky; chameleonic…

Steven Clifford

Clifford is a writer and poet from Long Island, NY. He’s “mentally Ill” but considers it a gift with consequences from a generous muse.

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