The cable above us is pulled apart
and frayed like the shoelaces of
someone without a home in the world.
Their ends spark and make people avoid
the area like you would an ex at a party.
They always told you things got better
when you felt worse, and when you
asked to leave they kept you longer.
The piles of debt and death are not
equivalent and never have been.
They are the loud cars on the block
you can always hear in the background
whenever they’re awake.
Big crowds with the expectations of
abandoned children looking frantically
for someone else to cling to.
We should leave all our precious monuments
unfinished
Teleporting Typewriter 