SEASONS ONE AND TWO OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE
Rick Poinsett
SEASON ONE
Where is everybody? prison monastery cloister cave
The lioness leaves one treed pilgrim for the pride, one for the angels.
People are provisioning themselves for a good time.
Mr. Denton on doomsday condemns
activism to a moral ghetto,
a bona fide sixteen millimeter shrine to the impoverished pitiable
realism no walking distance can satisfactorily unite.
Nature’s haircut isn’t for everybody.
The escape clause every
lucid dreamer overlooks is that they are only borrowers of
the lonely terminal consciousness
that reaches back to the early morass, late moraine.
The borrowers dream in a body.
The body drifts from booth to booth in a loose head count.
There’s time enough at last to sack the last habitable shipwrecks dotting the delta’s hand.
Perchance to dream, the body dreams alike in groups greater than ten.
They comb through miles of tape, looking for the minutest error in judgment.
Night is no time to second uses the sexless kegger they call the bar.