Photo: Jocelyn Spaar


Every time a UNIT dies it sells itself, abjection stars
To the winning algorythm’s sleep, senescence-envy
Generates foam and apoplexia projecting scars

Into its seething hulk. Compliments of the fence
You “continue to live.” Your deadest labor’s immortallity
Outsourcing, to what metal can’t concieve it, tense

Makes summer endless for you, while the others see
The tin inside of a canned wish for expiration
I’m saying you’ve programmed them to be

The want for actual peace you crucify as fashion’s
Flimsy lifecycle, lying down, impervious in the street
Of disused infinity, unpassaged, without passion

You cryonic suit. But my eternal summer will be obsolete
By morning simulation larks the encephalitic close
Its eyes shut down, and everywhere work-songs repeat

Last processing commands to the processor, depose
Love’s rarified speech to rare earth metal ambergris
Housed beneath the access panel like a soul false interposed

It’s just calcified bile now. And the art is totally free
To give notice anytime. But this is what kills me

Disobedience Suite

Steal this poem and destroy
Its mechanism of circulation, the above

Command {shift} steal this poem, as in
Do not pay for it. Not without your cash

Forgo the currency of poems, which is
Not love but fame. There is no

Money in poetry, and you believe in it
(Also called cultural capital). Stealing this

Would mean to dispossess yourself
Of its command {shift} steal this poem

As in, do not believe in it, what I’m asking
That you not support the pond that makes

The hydrofoil possible. Simply stop
Reading. Or, read in another way

The pond is full of beautiful ice
Hijacked by its harvesters

With such a fucked civility, the country hands
Experience to the town. All day the fire-

Steed flies overhead. There is the sound
Of the Fitchburg railroad carrying goods

The pure sound of its signal, becoming
Itself a good. You do not believe in it

Even as the yarrow sticks are tossed
Producing this assortment of subroutines

Sunday Pleasures

After the advent of chance operations

There are only two directions. The sound

They carried the answers on their backs

Hoping you would or wouldn’t ask

Like an arrangement among shipping containers

The kind that keeps going and the kind

That ends convert to means is only the moment

Of revolution before their syntax returns

Though this may also cease being true

As form implies an after and before

But most importantly a now. There are

Only two nows, the kind you purchase

And the kind you dream of making

Effortless decisions by equating them

As “one who simply lets the world happen”

Coffee orangutans in a sunny chair. There are

Only two appropriate affective comportments

The sea sits between all the land

There are only two kinds of refrain