I ponder with a forty and a fedora

upon the beat, the lost, and the renaissance

fair and balanced are the worlds falling as callused and cold

as my fingers, unable

to feel the heat of the lamination machine at Kinko’s.

From slotted spoons and sugar cubes

to a needle in a haystack — nay

— a gutter to the tests on the paper,

I shudder at what the future brings

after we win Babylon,

after we lose Babylon.

——•—•—•——

I really wish I could have seen where the fuck that was going.