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.