After his funeral, which of the eleven
opted to find and mend their rotten nets
and fish?
And what made them set, again,
the clock to three years earlier, before all bets
were off for them, all odds mislaid? As if
they’d never thought he’d crown them big shots
in the coming kingdom.
They worked that skiff
like crazy. Can you blame them? What caught
their memories was his blank, gory face,
his odd slack jaw. Their minds were bending
around how wrong they’d been about his place.
And frankly, their own stories needed ending.
They met him at dusk. A maddening stranger
who told a cheerful story. What disaster?
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
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