Get to the Midwest mid-collapse, disconnect, all head-down in silos, proximity intros, intos, what you into? Tissue-pocketed seed.
Don’t wait until bloated with pop culture bits of Google detritus confined to Rascals, pallid faces downcast, scoliosis-hunched screenwise, horn at the base of the skull, scroll, personal highways through fingerprinted windshields, shrink into expanding blue-glo,
dildos from fleshlights, strap-ons from asses—unseen trash bag bottoms rupture, bloom, accumulate flotsam islands that press deeply into ocean, dissipate insidious, chemical, surge, seventy percent push inland.
Market bodies as processors, absorb terabytes, synthesize static to form as coasts flood, traffic slows, supply chained high heels thru litter tornados; not get-to-know but friended monosyllabia. Ice breaks up grey soap-foam sea, learns naught but personalized fictions broadcast by satellites. Turn your eyes toward a heatmap of sky—
moons reflecting screen prompts of suspect dictation. Clustered people hives, inverted narrative in Neptune’s bloodfilth eye, rendered in digitized cliffs of silver trees that weep pixels of garbage.
We watch a new island encroach this bay over bites of mercurial fish.
<<LOOK THERE, A NEBULA OF STYROFOAM COOLER. IS THAT A DECONTAMINATION SUIT? THESE BEACHES’ COLLECTIONS, PILED PLASTIC CHILDREN’S TOYS. SOMETHING TO EAT IN ALL THIS WORTH.>>
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You were my online hook-up & you left me under a silently singing TV, in a sonority of metal motors, the organic hum of cars, air conditioners, ring of refrigerators, knock of uneven fans, gasoline leaf blowers pushing dust, hard drive hums, underground rumbles & always construction. You left the caps lock on my keyboard, mopped up with my happy face t-shirt
came down from Mario clouds on Whitney walls, left grinding mustaches for opposing wheat rows breadbasketed, all gearshot transmission down corn-absorbed roads—cicadas drown our drone no more—edging the drive-thru lust of finance.
I regret that I do not remember the blackout, exited the moment you came, saw a window not glowing but clear & turned to your device, the sliding glass. I was in it. I don’t remember if we spoke German or English or the ultrasonic hiss of department store security systems.
Soft, present, safe, the breadbasket lies flat, Mongolia has hardly moved. Only landfill ski hills yet piled & pushed fear-based, surveilled, pregnant with toxic rats yet contained.
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Still does the sun, diluted by haze, ripple in grass over geneticized tassels to turn to syrup, fuel, pigfeed churned through a gut fed to polite, hospitable people who float flimsy over din of synthetic others speaking of others, the honest testament of trash in humidity. Rivulets of contamination, shallow plumes of grey puncture
disproportionate binary, phones one must still flip.
Imagine yourself anywhere else & fully present, without an icon below your eye. Winged ants at the end of spring find home in red earth. The physicality of leaves sold droll liberation of a drive, nothing but the sound of cicadas through windows unrolled as butterflies smash on plasticized glass let the world roll before you.
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