This Poem

This poem is ugly, because it's a connection between the object, and the objectified. Because electric attention attains nothing, & a string of prophetic words leaves the throat parched. This poem is awareness, because you are chasing shadows among plastic glasses: full of reflection full of soft tones, full of notions. This poem is drunk with insignificance, the ink leaking from point to point, a broad stroke of moment between the thought, and the word. This poem is Marxist, infused with history and love, and the products of production, and steal, and the indifference of promise: the need and ability which is silent, the burden of chatter which astounds the attention. This poem is manifestly fraudulent, like identity, or god, or commerence the exalted evolution of movement and the void. This poem is a contradiction, exalted humility the pretext of language, which assumes no assumptions. Tomorrow is the day of the Lord, but the sky is empty.