Maybe during the next plague, we’ll figure it out

the twitter feeds
resemble tombstones
memorials for when we perish
the great debates
we wasted
minutes on
the foul play
in three acts
without intermission
look spry
divine, deadly whip
of a retort there, pal
cruel animals
need cruel affirmations
boycott—
sit on your hands
until the world goes numb
and feel your fingers
loosen their grip
on what we’ve become
lecture salivating corneas
as if they’re listening at all
witness collective griefbacon
in real time
and into an anxious fury
supple like a strawberry
in the afternoon
but the seeds, they’re poison
slam the phone on an altar
and pray an ungodly, half-heard whimper
none of us make it out alive,
so why try?
maybe during the next plague,
we’ll figure it out.