Life is this, here. (Poem)


We have numbers and
statistical specimens
in urban islands.
Not people
with shadows and foreshadowing(s)

each is a
continental plate
but they don’t converge or diverge
thus the love lava
doesn’t ooze out from ID cards.

they’ve identities.
There’s no existential crisis.
There’s maybe a crisis in existence.

Neither grandmothers
nor gadflies can subsist here.
People survive
in the loudness of sound installations.

they smoothly forget your name.
they have finger bowls
and frozen foods. (yes, dead
eating dead)
and they’ve your number
added as fact
not flesh.
Don’t try to call.

Hondas rule
the city.
obey them and you’ll do just fine.

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