Harryette Mullen

Damage                 

The future of mankind is underwater. It’s not on Mars.

If you ask people to name something underwater, it’s going to be sharks,
whales, Titanic.                                                  

  —Stockton Rush     

Back to this scene they find their way by instruments destroyed, left to

rot. Immortal Titans give birth to ruthless gods who overthrow their parents to

rule on Mount Olympus. This is the place, disaster curving their

assertion.  A mountain of ice breaches the hull of Titanic. The unsinkable ship,

fragile debris on the deep-sea floor. Ribs of disaster, evidence of damage.

The thing they came for. Reckless captain rushes speculative craft Titan to

observe the wreckage of Titanic. See the damage that prevails. Resistant to

corrosion in seawater, titanium is an element found in stars and meteorites, and

in most living things. With five onboard, Titan cracks under pressure in ocean’s

crushing depth. They came to explore the wreck. To see the damage.

Laser Focus

Believe in yourself and anything is possible.

                                                                                      —Elizabeth Holmes

In the movie adaptation, who plays the character you created? In your blazing

trajectory, your role was comic-book genius, marvelous mortal of super-vision

planning to /rule/ save the world. You kept a laser focus on audacious goals, your

wishful thinking so compelling, it attracted billions. Disgraced director, plausible

performer, styled in signature wardrobe, hair, and makeup. Leaning in, with

unwavering attention to /image/ management, you /lied to everyone/ blurred the

facts while keeping yourself in the black.

Powerful men gazed into your unblinking eyes, mesmerized by your laser vision,

concentrated energy aimed at a point in the distant future. You, the living image

of a sphinx, captivated followers with a blank alluring stare, converting them to

believers in your glossy cover profile. Hoping to repair an altered soul, you were a

boldfaced pretender driven by ambition, guided by a singular vision, with a

conviction you could make it work no matter what.

Sonnets Composed on Loo Roll                                                

Frozen on screens where we post photos of obese pets. Yes, the lockdown’s led to

boredom. Left more people to become morose loners, loose screws, web-net trolls,

pestered preppers or clever self-helpers. The fever's felled others, left them sore or

worse. More holes to complete, fewer zones of comfort or good cheer for those who go

solo. Less hope for broken folk who love freedom yet, to echo hollow words, foreswore

the shots. Not one network show ever offers foolproof methods or controls to prevent

fever, so less room for error. Competent composers offer sorrow songs performers croon

to soothe over notes of trombone, cornet, or oboe. Then follow broke poets whose

strophes open whole new tropes for lovelorn sonnets. To boost the mood, we seek good

news yet seem to be tormented, lost, depressed doom-scrollers. Do we, woebegone,

forget how to feel better? We see how well we fend, or not, when bedroom or corner

closet becomes the spot to hold school lessons, host zooms for work, or throw remote

hoedowns. Who remembers there’s no roof to cover the homeless who sleep on

concrete? Do we, however less contented for the moment, see who’s left even more

bereft?                                                                                                     

Before now, ever wonder who controlled the flow of goods sent to store shelves from

Denver to Boston, Fort Worth to Compton, Toledo to Provo, Rochester to Oshkosh? So

the lockdown’s when we lose the connect to grocers who sell wholesome foods we’ve

seen on screen where modern chefs show how to cook. Then other goods—gone. Soon,

when we shop, there’s no root beer or coffee, no popcorn, pretzels, Cheetos or Oreos. No

fresh corn on the cob, no dozen brown-shell eggs or frozen omelets. No pesto or orzo; no

noodles, eggrolls or wontons; no porkchop, goose or lobster. So too, no tooth powder,

poodle groomer tools or spot remover, no flesh-colored hose or essence of rose. Then, oh

no, the worst, no Cottonelle. Who knew who sent the goods whenever, wherever,

however we needed? So often we do not see those men or women who move the food,

tote those boxes, stock these shelves. Yet we depend on them to get the goods stores sell.

We most don’t know who does those jobs. We know, nonetheless, we’ve got to get food,

got to order lots more goods. Oh yes, we need loo roll, too.