Time and Resources
wtf was that, new global catchphrase, mediocrity
built for two, as an appendix to all these weird proposals
in the sweaty head culture, trying to get the right person
on the phone, the story of our affective lives together
in the nasty disconnect, time vs. recursion, failing
to explode, in relation to the materials, scatterbrained,
so I collapse, in the evil starting corner, set of delusions,
the choices you make in the low-res future, pre-common
and flogged, across the street from the Acropolis, name
that feeling, in the form of wages, at the mercy of small
things, in the twitch vernacular, sure enough, the field
diminishes in us, everything’s real, manual, pegged on
inventory clearance models, people fall out of their
boring lives together, unable to formulate thoughts into
words, both an abstract thing to have happen, and a flight
from abstraction, let off the alien hook, at the brink of
a moral precipice, the voice of a semi-processed commodity
cranked out in various shapes, the difference between us
and the soup is difficult and non-functional, another day
in the circuit, lost in dispute, ordered to don the tracksuit
of death, with its heightened visual aspects, jacking
the supplicants, one by one, in contaminated time, not
reality, but a form of consent, instantiated by repetition,
publishing it in the back lots as one would rub nasal
cream on every free surface, scented and burning, in the
gross lime light, riding with the ogre of duty, to the market
with the hoi polloi fifty feet in the air, buying up presence
for your life job, wired to the mega-story eyeball, staring at
a jet stream, among the grocery laden pallets, at night’s
surmise, here on the gentrified ave, I’d be lying if I wasn’t
standing bolt upright, afraid to miss my train and pass
over into the zone of ‘no pay,’ here on the grid, what
appears nourishing is merely out to get you, there’s a field
of translucent sting rays clouding up the visual field, a
forest of closed tabs, at the bottom of an elevator shaft,
where Harper dons glow-in-the-dark makeup and stares into
the illegal cells, a gun at the hip and an elevator for a
constituency, breakneck and bound for reconnective surgery,
merciless beasts on the bummer feed, from our mailing
room to your recycling bin, their unmournable bodies,
who don’t line up and die of old man, half out of the zippered
earth, this generation’s lost its faith in the formal potatoes,
time and resources, and will someday leave a beautiful after-
image, from the jerks of thought and vision, thick as a still
breathing network, the working world, having been eaten,
put on four hour delay, and cleared of the whole inner-outer
world distinction for utterly familiar terrestrials, the tears of
an office clerk, material man longs for, a reality film about
somebody else, a literal record of dying trees, these are
the songs, the seasons, life goes on, waking state, en route
to whatever, and nascently points out the objectless stars