With BlackBerrys and freeze-dried granola, we’re all crunching the numbers,
making light of it all and “liking” our lives
in preformed, formatted opinions.
Options are slim,
slimming opiate shakes, an aspartame IV, some carcinogenic carrageenan for thickness,
careening us into greener pastures and detached frontal lobes.
Lobbing the ball,
we’re swinging blindly into singed fingers,
signals that we should have stopped typing years ago.
You think we’d learn,
not lean on wall posts for support;
our pasts presented fast,
in 140 characters or less.
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