apostrophe, I’m channeling Whitman—

he says that his atoms are rushing through

the veins of another revolution,

he’s quickly assimilating into

phosphor dots, trying to form a sincere

face– he is easing through our labyrinth

with a new heart, pulsing in the cursors

in a remote chat room at the first hint

of the apocalypse—now the future

is pixelating into his beard, his

singing hushed:  A million Trojan horses

on the horizon are circling the skies—

beware the dark dreams spinning above you,

beware the dark dreams spinning above you.