The man behind the foggy door—
big nose, bigger glasses—
is called “DR. ORNSTEIN.”
A boss
elevated above trash
with reused
models
in overused
corridors
meant to dull senses
through colors,
through lighting.

Accompanying him
in close orbit,
aaaaa???,
one fair (in the gender sense, only)
with notions cocked,
a bump stock for weaponized paraphilias
Ahri to Zed.

Three Questions
initiates
(she is the engagement specialist),
closing ground
before
mouths and minds,
rendering a disabling stab
with a hitbox ‘here’ when
it is really ‘there’
(that might be projecting):
“Well, what have you done?”

From your cloudy peripheral vision
comes a second, drool-inducing blow.
“GOOD LUCK GETTING UP.”
You see it coming.
doesn’t matter.
Was your input even read?
Strokes recorded?
Keys, uh…
Tap.
Tap.
Tap?
[this is the menacing sound of forms sitting in a dark corner] /
“Invulnerability frames are lowest for slow rolls,”
and you,
you fat fuck,
are
Encumbered by haloperidol,
comfort food,
emotions.

Soul bare, depleted,
distract yourself
with life.
You’re broke.
Distract yourself for [a month and a half].
Backburner it.
Alt-TAB.
Family time? > Please.
New art? > Let’s not.
Porn? > Um, sure.
Net guides taunt gleefully: “EZ PZ,” or just:
“Get help, asshole.” (More virtue signalling and soap dropping.
Whitey wants humanity
but not to be
human:
“Unable to summon phantom”).
Bullshit.
Plus, there’s always the stotting black
buck
who can do it with bongo drums.
Ugh.

On the way back
stay alert, fool:
there are new patterns for old sentries.
Patience chipped away by some little twit—
who was much less aggressive before your currency
lay in a heap
on one of Their slightly-scuffed olefin floors—
cackling
“Hoo hoo hoo,
this is a new policy!”
Swallow life, and take your 60th try:
slow, plodding, robotic; salty, misty.
Past pilgrims with hunches
that something ain’t quite …
“Well, these are the resources available.”
Past gaunt mamajamas,
faces averted,
leaning hard against the wall.
Past familiar knights perpetually rounding a corner
(don’t exhale,
they hear breaths, thoughts, and erections).
Through the fog,
make haste towards mastery.

YOU DIED