As u read these words, yr eyes tickle my meat nubbins. I begin to laugh &
swoon & my skeletal posture caves in. The spectacle of the poem is upon us.
Like a blessèd gob of spit.

We have never asked for this shameful exhibition. But we are thinking of
asking.

We will abandon every city we have ever built with our zoological
clairvoyance. Our goggling love of riots.

The poem is anti-history, the denarration of everything we have ever known.
The evacuation of the memesphere for some hottie tottie cock love & a little
cloud-blindness in parking lots.

It’s rarely enough.