in this gathering age of e-trade and add-ons
apathy falls star-lit through mottled clouds.
becomes a post that paints dreams across
autocorrect. phosphorescent. photoshopped
into midsummer ceiling where binary learns
to be god.
code knows that consumerism comes taped in
cardboard boxes. freely shipped with two-day
delivery. this auction never ends. attention is sold
to highest bidders like seconds are sold to the clock.
preowned by time’s unassumed addiction. by its
ticking need to be used.
god says, click here to buy guns. click there for
forums on guillotines. click here to know which
mammal you’d be if trapped in the garden with
Adam and Eve. this is a list of serpents. that is
the Bible in Sanskrit.
here are color-coded cemeteries where pixelated
profiles of people long expired IRL sit as soulful
software. statuses perpetually pending. immortal as
mathematical constants. as the digits in pi even
on unholy days. 3.14159: here is the number for
a bakery near you where URLs become bombs
if inhaled by rote.
if you’re sad, code knows you’re sad. here are two ads
for fluoxetine. if you’re glad, of course you’re glad.
dopamine spikes come thrusted into your eye like
Barbies at base of Caspian Sea. code knows that
blue light blooms steadily from screens. that monitors
are monikers for anonymity and pride. inhale your
username as the siren’s song, exhale yourself as a
stranger, as carbon, and other small repentances.
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Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey, and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s recent work appears in journals such as West Trade Review, The Anthologist, and The New Verse News, among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.