The sky is filled with invisible things,
yet I can see the wrecking ball clearly.
We used a meat thermometer
when the medical one broke,
but we didn’t know where to insert it.
Fish scales can’t measure the flop
after everything falls apart.
That’s when we went viral
along with a video of a dancing houseplant
as algorithms drive the meaning,
although I’m hoping it’s only the caffeine
that’s making me sit here and shake.
The feedback loop is mostly static
and drives the boats from shore.
I’m still waiting for the technology that lifts us up,
as the cameras see me on the inside too.
These words have got me around the neck
like seeds in a sparrow’s tiny talons
before making their way to the landfill
along with whatever couldn’t be included
in the estate sale and the backlash
known as Tony Orlando and Dawn
because I’m not interested in nostalgia
when the past was designed to hurt.
We watch a Greyhound bus in the distance
as the railroad crossing gate
bounces off the car’s hood
on a trip to the vet and then the florist.
Anyone could come through the window,
so like me that flock is getting its waddle on.
I have ever only lost what I’ve loved,
but sometimes it was also my fault,
either too close or too far away,
and that’s a bigger story about the world
that I don’t know how to tell.
Some bugs just want to cling to the screen.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.