Armed and blitzed, his boss's teen wife beside
the soot-stained boxcars--everything's disjointed.
The ant meanders, authoring his way
from television knobs, then quickly twists
commercials in primary colors. Here
behind us, you can feel the crowd, the guilt;
it's full of pixels, dust, and hair, and taught
Sir Lancelot the knightly code's all hat
and civilized last suppers: stiff hors d'oeuvres
and juice, immense connections. Neural sparks
are why the capital is retrograde--
our destination and our brains digress.
The ant seems ill-equipped for death. Alone,
it will say "cheese" not long before we're damned.
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