Photo: Jocelyn Spaar
18
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
