By Mike O’Connell

just under the sky,
a sticky, plastic,
chrome dipped universe
we have propped up
(for immediate consumption)
an accumulated and unsustainable
design for anti reality
that smells(suspiciously)
like fear,
and flapping, wave the future off.
machines are struggling to become us,
circling, drones deployed,
armed/dangeroulsy with
photon torpedos,
creating little explosions,
signifying death,
all looking for unsafe places
to hook up and be free.
it becomes a matter of viscosity,
time sensitive,
alert for changes,
empty memories with
vacant slots

land against the wind