Doomscroll

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Doomscroll

Sick with input, locked in blinking lights
     and whirs, onward broadcasts personhood.
          The noise amounts to nothing, instantaneous.

Thinks the digital hand of all the songs sung 
     that cost so little played, greeting ages arid
          passing in your ears. To many, left unfinished.

I play. I reach for pen or text or oven, even 
     microfiber rag to clean. Flouncing vogue connected
          promises, dragged by all accounts and left in shock.

Thinks the matchless anonymity of parents 
     doing to you for themselves. Homemaking joys
          they say you’ll understand once you’ve a child.

Find only several strangers will not know,
     whispering every night I ever cast like fountain coins 
          in menace wishing back. Seeking hidey holes for cover.

Thinks the dwelling nurtured place of every instant 
     graffitied by the trash, laughing without why. Pray 
          the era comes soon / fast when you won’t fake it.

Better off gone summing through the mess
     at home than woefully wading again where the shadow
          recesses. Sparingly prove my being, you’re generous.

Thinks the valve of under pressure and turns 
     it ritualistically, as motel Gideons undrawered, 
          my mouth aslack with ease at every output.


[10/18/18...]