warning signs of the coming, well educated apocalypse
your millennial undercut:
that foreign jazz
grandkid sketching
Spain
who rolls cigarettes
to exercise public adulthood,
metering a social media
philosophy
(on a ratio of
thumbs to
craft beers),
“why can’t I say it too?”,
the kale nappy,
to profess religion
is business
is religion—
young self-spurned creative
dodger;
the limit as non-sequitur click bait approaches
sentient machinery,
as reaching for textual option
pleasure
pay-per-fuck-you
buzzword,
info feed,
and do tell
are numerical brooches
designed to the proof
(coincidentally, vegan pudding
that answers open casting call
for young white
irony).
the politics align
like stars
accepting
guilt medals,
color the foreground of
sit-ins standing,
the music then cues
mid-phrase
and 3 decibels higher
the host announces
where we will break,
overhead and declarative.