The whole idea fell apart, ascribing clouds
to the cult of objects, which only begets
a culture of objects and its poor analogs
of exhaling and shitting (an arch has about
as many calories as the whole land
of bison and I can’t fathom adding a second).
I try to retreat from the stones and
only imagine the arch, but without
the stones imagining an arch between them
they might as well impede me as a wall,
so, basically, I’m stuck.
The consistency of nostalgia is too much
like paste when I leave it in the fridge —
but how else can I eradicate my fear
of the present just going to hell
when I’m not even doing anything, or sleeping?
I must stop thinking of myself
as a terrified being/ someone has already replaced
the glowy densities of my parents’ wanton fun lust
of life. I can remember by the digital conversion to a dust.