Moon Ball

Atop the tower that scrapes the moon’s glow,
I challenge my pops to a lil’ one-on-one like it’s all finally Twitch.

Our skycourt blocks the crow-paths and gull feathers stick in our teeth.
A gnat in my eye is why I’m airballing these threes.

The fields below’re obscured by purple mist.
Who the fuck is Karl the Fog? Where do these kids get off renaming the droplets of the air?

I’m boomer-ing toward paradise.
The cicadas are old modems and my father, broken by time, chucks the b-ball toward the hoop.

It explodes into shards of the digital, unrendered, each self and urge finally free.
NBAJAM4ever blisters in green over the burnt heavens.

We’re breaking apart like over-modded games.
My mother emails me to say she misses my poems about tree forts.

I can’t look at the sunset, mother, without thinking it a divine smear of internet hate-boards.
69chans and hope has become invisible:

old selves split every which-way.
I’m in the era of bad ideas and bad actions.

My bookie knows me too well.
It’s all Microsoft paint out-outwards toward the vaporglow.

Okay, so you happy Zoomers?
You happy, mother G?

My father’s frame angled like the demon scribbled into the margins of my science textbook.
Jim Carrey is God and he, like Calvino, pulls the moon closer.

VHS tape unspools from my teeth.
Bologna spiders around my gut as I drive with the ball toward the hoop, shattering records.

Citizens of heaven, are you bored by the human doom scroll?
Don’t blame me. The Zoomers promised they would upload my soul.

Sold some ad-space on my grave. I’m plugged into the druggy cords.
The gopher holes silver into other dimensions.

The alt-right yelps like a stuck boar.
My NASCAR runs on pig squeal.

I dip in my toes for a flash ethnography of whatever is clickbait.
Lambo-lovers all up in my feed.

Within this poem is a quiet poem about a dog, mother.
The dog opens its Cheetos with human hands.

The MIT prof. coded something wrong, so the dog sounds ill.
This is our Zoom call.

It is all imaginary. You have no leader. You belong to no one.
You’re too tired to be kind. There is nutrition and there is practice.

Will Vincent’s chapbook, Wildfires: I-XVI was recently published with speCt!. His poems and articles have appeared in The Elephants, Scout, PANK Magazine, Entropy, HTML Giant, and The Iowa Review. He co-wrote a short film with Adam Shecter and edited a chapbook of the same title for the video installation New Year, displayed at the Eleven Rivington gallery in New York. He lives in Culver City, California.

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