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Poetic Thinking 2016 | March 30, 2020

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A certain type

A certain type
Vivian Lam

 

 

 

 

Ctrl +

Where is the Manager
I need to terminate
terminate
terminate this program—
They said that the world is at our plodding sordid fingertips but
who are these gods who tell us that we are free to kiss marry kill
when they have already told us
who to live for, die for, kill;
Our guns are not our own
but they shake with the burden of
indecision
the proactive guilt
of doing nothing at all—
it’s easiest to copy and paste
two steps to undo
save only the cleanest sheet of anonymity;
No direction but four
that we can take one
at a time but all we want is to
press the dial pad
and make a connection
for
these
are the
only steps
that enter
home

Alt +

Because  all  we    ever     need       is          more                                                      space.

Worn down naked keys oozing oil and sebum
But all we ever used were a few vowels and a thumb’s-width of Space
Where we sit alone at the bar in a full house nursing our bitter failures and convincing ourselves that
we are alone, there is no choice, we are nothing, decision is everything
and we’ve made all the wrong choices—
but perhaps all we need to see that we have at least 12 untouched F__’s to give at the very top of the quantification that makes our lives valuable;
you know it’s snowing cocaine in this empty bedroom
a soft dusting of powdered sugar that falls in straight lines
painted track lines
that let us know where we can go should go can only go
around until we find ourselves
so they ask us to inhale
breathe in
inspire
and give this breath of air to our neighbor
so they can create
and walk along this long line of
habit
but this not a matter of apotheosis and art and advancement but of
exploitation—
an outdated Break key that remains instated “in principle”
to give us something to look forward to
so Mondays jump to Tuesdays jump to Wednesdays jump to Thursdays jump to Saturdays, and finally

Delete

Dead.
The light bulb flickers in the dark.

But those of you who picked the apple off the tree and walk on the air would never know. Your transcendental eye is a progress simple creatures such as I cannot comprehend.

You command. But in the four walls of our prison, we have windows to mediocrity, sublimity, and identity. Scratch another tally, another day—our contribution to the script.

 

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