Operating System Upgrade

gates are fists upon the traveling detergent
swindle spell clinging hooks in their jaws, the
fear of impending annihilation

rises in the distance from a past
lodged in lumbar three, crooked
as a scar in a vulture’s mouth

waiting for the storm to pass
the guards think
but little can be known of the soon

not-yet-arrived realities which will haunt
in the form of shadows born of daylight
hovering over sidewalks, participating in

the bars at night, having sex with
our locals, schools
populated with their hours

forming a continent inside a continent
inside a brain-room, building
necessary new perceptions in order

to not kill each other


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