Morning's induction act -
the sun breaks cover bright as
Los Alamo's flash.

What do theologians call a life without events?

The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush.
I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning.

I begin the puppetry of morning routines:
I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain.

I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water
on the face with an almost determined lack of expression.

I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold
as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom
- keeps me fit and acceptably sane.

Later, bathed in hot indifference,
and clothed in exhausting obligations,
I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations.

Soon I’m ready for another taxing day
of waiting for the disease to run its course.

The question is:
“Are people still collecting
memories, these days?”

"This isolation
isn't bothering me much.”
I say, if I'm asked.

But I’m not sure that’s
true. After hundreds of nights
of dull solitude.

I think each night might
carry a value - of dear,
and unmeasured loss.

Loss of memories
- because they never happened.
How have we all changed?

the *** was good
She loved to swallow. Even
from the ******. Had
a real fetish with it

They passed out eventually
in each other’s
arms
and somewhere towards
the morning he
woke up with a blade in the
gut

It twisted hard

He gasped for air
and watched her eyes, demanding
an explanation

Her response was a shrug. “Just
wanted to see what it
feels like. I think I
love it.”

He didn’t survive
and she faced no real consequences

The world is full of fetishists

some girls like to
swallow *** and carve their
partners up for fun

and some men
like to hook up with
psych ward patients

There never was a time in history
when madness was not
romanticized
and idolized
and alluring as sin

We hurtle down the last few hundred feet
of steep lavender lined cobbled *****
shaded by majestic umbrella pines - around
a last hairpin turn and there they are:

The blue-white Pampelonne beaches, of St Tropez.
Their indecent beauty almost defeats words.

With the scents of lavender, pine and salt sea air, you can
get dizzy on the aromatics. It's a Mediterranean performance
or perhaps a preview of heaven.

Our daredevil, fifteen year old driver, (Sylvain)
gets an unappreciative look from my mom. My brother (Brice)
and sister (Annick) whoop as if practiced, as they leap
from the open-sided Mercedes shuttle. I calmly gather my things.

This tranquil and elegant beach cove is private for hotel
guests - no chic crowds here - just a few quiet guests and
valets dressed in beige. The Pampelonne beaches are *******
(**** if you like), Annick peels ******* just before she hits the waves.

Brice, ever the considerate brother says, “Come ON,
RELAX, you’ll just look like one of the BOYS.”
Which earns him the old, American, one-finger salute.

I missed vacations this year and the beaches - where hours
stretch, with blissful laziness, to the rhythm of nature.
Will we ever get back to some pre-pandemic "normal"?

On this winter morning
I’m daydreaming
of warm summer daysprings,
blue lake glistenings,
butterscotch skin,
heartbeat quickenings,
and unmade decisions behind blue eyes.

I want to speak to you so badly
but I’m just going to sit here hoping
you’ll start the conversation.

Boys are so dense!

I even send an obvious signal:
I didn't pull out my phone and get all busy
the moment we were alone.

Duh.

(Georgia election Senryus)

Yeah, we're going
to give America the
democratic win.

'Cause that's how we roll.
We'll show you how to toss out
republican crooks.

We'll give the bird to
lying Donald Trump and his
criminal cohorts.

Long live America,
long live The Constitution,
long live blue Georgia.

We’re the crew of the spaceship boring - on a one year mission.
The situation's literally life or death - this isn’t science-fiction.

The crew is an actual family - ideal for such a quest,
but none of us volunteered for this - it’s more like house arrest.

We seek out no adventures, we avoid interaction if we can.
We boldly go absolutely nowhere - isolation is the plan.

Wander into our orbit - we’ll scan you with our sensors.
Our station's sealed to aliens and we don't let any enter.

Our voyage is just symbolic we're not in outer space,
the commission is simple self-sacrifice and it happens at turtle pace.

If you need me I'll be me in my capsule, safe in my virtual void,
sequestered for the greater good and shelved like an unwanted toy.

(Sitting on Santa's lap)

Me: "I want a dragon"
Santa: "Nope, too dangerous"
Me: "Ok, then I want a boyfriend"
Santa: "What color dragon?"