It may look like I'm doing nothing with my time—
like I'm waiting for these collapsing days to catch up
to me—but don't you realize that I'm building my brand?
What do I have besides my online presence? Certainly
not my body. If I ever get sick I'll have to really hype
my GoFundMe because I don't have health insurance.
So rise n' grind motherfucker. Modem tones sound
like love songs from a speaker hung inside my skull.
I'm light-headed. I'm on the clouds. I'm trying to kill
every one of my idols before they inevitably let me down.
If I was famous, I would spend my life more nervous
at the gas pump than I already am. But the paparazzi
are not interested in how I might slide a wedge between
being and nonbeing. So fuck it. I'll make this my poem
for the end of the world. O Paparazzi, where will you be
then? In the dark? After the gasoline's gone. After
the money's gone. Soon, I'll be pacing anxiously around
a waiting room as the void grows ever larger. This is not
how it's supposed to go. I just want to watch old skateboard
videos buffer over dial-up, see reality burst into itself
like paper fortune tellers, finally pop a perfect kickflip
down the biggest set of stairs you have ever seen.