Runoff

Too much: war, Oscars, ultimata, dead Net connection like a shriveled fruit on a desert island. Who will win the Oscar™ for best war? Dreamt recently: on a bus to some sort of conference / with mostly children / they left without me / I managed to cling to the Bunyan statuary mounted on top of the bus / but fell off / I was in backwoods country / knocked on a stranger’s door / naked woman / her torso entirely covered by breasts / her naked daughter / Stealth bombers skimming the lake as they approach. “When the men spoke, their words froze in mid-air.” The cold writes, the warmth speaks. It also smells, a cityful of thawing month-old dogshit. A mindful of melting thoughts. Words fly through the ether like precision-guided whatnots – why can’t they just freeze, why can’t they just freeze and rewind?