Leveling up 

through the smirking detail

relatable, as they say, 

whither the general failing

of ordinary antiterror

to impede our movement 

toward the equilibrium prices 

at the back of the line

where we are quietly concussed

by a simple distribution matrix 

for supercoordinate horror selfies

displayed on the sweatshirts of the victors.

The ground crawls into the sky. 

Some guy wants money again:

artisanal emoticons lobbed into 

a high window of the Villa Medici

just before everything gets fuzzed over

by Versace Medusa heads

at constant returns to scale. 

The invertebrate jury, inveterate 

defenders of the rights of the dead

to get dead, and stay that way, at any time

by virtue of the municipal 

zoning laws designed to redirect 

the flows of stored-up human 

activity toward the processing stations.

They did that to our faces

while we were blindsided

by unforeseen mediocrity, 

the airlock slowly filling up

with Prosecco, our unlikely heroes

swinging through the study 

halls of the damned on psychotropic

lianas, as a pencil might accidentally

tear through the three-dimensional 

commodity space like the discontinuity

introduced into a function

by the rebellion of a people

against their configuration as variable

quantities of corn, iron, sugar. 

We keep examining 

the hole in the world for news

about our true intentions

while our former students surf past

on subsistence vectors

that individuate them each to each.

They do not individuate me. 

 
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