These poems are a little messed up.
OK.
Like real people, I lent normal screens of hyper-revenge to pass
through pandemic's end of the night private Zoom party,
leaving by copter after the wood's chopped by a true twisted
facsimile--
maybe its starlessly thyme to give King Crimson a listen.
You were the planet eaters in yourn dreamn.
Mandy, static, blue, death understood only
as death's photograph.
Ha-ho-he.
There is algorhythms plus subduxction,
for them, numerouses, reading aloud
on the inside, that truant performance.
So says E: let me give you a gift-wrapped peanut.
Children of the new drawn who didn't do something wrong.
Screen time keeps touching its face.
Why wouldn't I, silverlight, stay in full screen mode?
Loose words.
Cults never quite need the budgets they're prescribed.
Need that blue shadow coming down my nose.
Don't touch.
He's got Joe Biden eyes.
Connection lost.
[LAUGHTER]
Right now, I'm reading poems that
were written in 2020, during the lockdown phase of the pandemic
that maybe never ended.
So I feel bad about that line, even though Joe Biden was just
running against Trump at that point.
Now everybody blames him for everything.
Like, I am recovering from a fractured arm
because Joe Biden pushed me onto the ground in October.
[LAUGHTER]
Sorry.