WEBVTT

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"Ready-Made."

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"I tint the street view a
forgiving dove since nothing

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fades to twilit oblivion, so
zoom in until my eyes need

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moisturizing.

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The sitting room is quiet,
sprayed with air freshener

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the flavor of aged card catalog.

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Glass shelves full
of tooled tell-alls

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have transcended
into the data air,

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sealed into capsules you can
skim while eating a nuked pot

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pie.

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Even alone, you're
self-conscious of eating alone,

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so you try to look busy,
dialing the help desk,

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chatting with a
timed Indian accent

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until the line goes dead,
though nothing ever goes dead.

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Smart snow has
reached total density,

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drifting even inside
the hospice, so you hear

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the gray-eyed pulse of comas,
private as a cargo of stones

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being dragged across the Arctic,
the orphaned, fugitive voice

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whispering, enough.

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Leave me.

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In a company retreat, cuffed
in the legs, partners bumbling

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toward a finishing line,
a teamwork so harmonious,

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the booming trade of information
exists without our paid labor.

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What to do with
all this leisure?

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I blink at my orange
trees, spangled

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with captions, landscapes
overlaid with golden apps

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and speculation nudging hope
like the sham time machinist

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who returns from the
future, convincing everyone

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with his doctored snapshots
of restored prosperity

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and a sea full of whales,
huge as ocean liners,

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singing the call-note
of our relieved tears."

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