Two spiky-haired Russian cats hit kick flips
on a vert ramp. The camera pans to another
pocket of the room where six kids rocking holey
T-shirts etch aerosol lines on warehouse walls
in words I cannot comprehend. All of this
happening in a time no older than your last
heartbeat. I’ve been told the internet is
an unholy place — an endless intangible
stumbling ground of false deities
dogma and loneliness, sad as a pile of shit
in a world without flies. My loneliness exists
in every afterthought. Yesterday, I watched
a neighbor braid intricate waves of cornrows
into her son’s tiny head and could have lived
in her focus-wrinkled brow for a living. Today
I think I practice the religion of blinking too much.
Today, I know no neighbor’s name and won’t
know if I like it or not. O holy streaming screen
of counterculture punks, linger my lit mind
on landing strips — through fog, rain, hail —
without care for time or density. O world
wide web, o viral video, o god of excrement
thought. Befriend me. Be fucking infectious.
Move my eyes from one sight to the next.