Here you’ll get all the generic shitting in pants.
The crying for pablum.
The open envy of breasts.
All the loathing of any available silence.
All the mysterious anger aimed at the screen.
All the red.
Here you will find a ghastly lumberjack
charges into my room screaming and paranormal.
Hoping to jar my sorrow for payment?
Impossible, Monsters Inc. is years away.
What will the childhood images that flicker on
tomorrow’s teen’s inner stage look like?
Millions of logos smashing into images of towers
and fat congealing in the narrows of their holiest places.
Where will a million humans texting end up?
Lemming-lept into concrete absence of real struggle,
into mouse-clicks that agree and share and like and
do all that other heavy emotional lifting, leaving the
psychic exoskeleton looking like a dancing bo-jangles
who can’t keep the bones from falling all over the pavement.
But that’s all middle to last chapter shit.
Bodies all over the hemisphere abandoning the struggle
of a book for an app.
Angels caught and demoted to trumpeters for texting while smiting.
God gone off-line for an hour,
to update your status.
Wonders sent to junkyards for later, post-apocalyptic salvage.
Movie sets turning into battlegrounds.
Celebrities rounded up like cattle. Forced to reenact for survival, the
It’s going to be like Burning Man.
But that’s another chapter.