finally, our faces fail
the smile scanners

the Ideal X, clicked and dragged
onto the slimy beach

air warring with air

while the cops impound
Anarchopanda’s head

and the new performing arts
complex works itself up into bulbous
overbearing slabs

in the dead lot
adjoining the jail.

they used to make cigarettes there.

but since we began transitioning to
a james franco-based economy
there are much simpler paths

to suicide: Pink Floyd light shows
various forms of participatory
musical theater which convert

to unpaid internships 
having other people’s
refractory feelings

the party of #yolo clashing with the
party of #reason

on the plain of Agincourt

the gamification of Thatcher-is-dead
piñata parties, neuroresponsive
bundles appropriate for

simple commercial or military applications
Grade AA starting at 7 cents per watt


basically, you have three choices:
jail, mall, museum

whose hapless invariance
repeats as edges leaping
away from each problematic

crossing to defeat
all possible reply.

jail + museum =
university; mall + jail
= airport; mall + jail
+ museum = home sweet home

the arrival from which
by mail of that self
called to account by standard

deductions on municipal violence
brings little solace, at last

and actually, there are only
shipping containers, for the most part

the real x of fungible matter
merges into the keystream

of new products 3D-printed
from vats of pink, pseudopodal slime

while we cower behind
the piles of mortuary stone
left over from the days

when the dead stayed in their graves
when their faces could be told apart

from the smiling living






























































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