Trigger Mournings

tw: jus w8. I will likely pull the trigga.

go figga. millions of fists are made airborne:

cuz our springtime gets bigga.

Trigger figure: sheer thumb profile,

pointed like a doberman snout spotting prey,

+ index finger is a perfectly straight road.

this image is a guncock, the coiled cobra

of a bullet delivery vessel

just waiting for the Word.

Air quality warning:

Do not even attempt to breathe this mourning.

No more slow dawn refreshers, the sun a basketball

Raising itself to capture the horizon.

We start sobbing even earlier now.

The sun is a scuffed basketball,

becoming soil-brown, disguised

by puffpalls of congealing smoke,

the exhalation of eager fires

that turn whole, treeful counties

into ruthless, reeking furnaces

in the span of three hours-

about the same amount of time

that my wild hikes used to last.

Trigger mourning: Progress is adjourning.

The scientific consensus is making us

increasingly defenseless. Saving ourselves

from ourselves is rendered

far too expensive. Woe to a species

willing to pay only dollar store prices

for the illusive vanity of shallow fixes,

surface bobbing solutions to the depravity

of global soul pollutions

-as hopefulness, nixes.