We seem to be increasing,
increasingly codified, modified
by mechanisms too abstract
and shameful to perceive with gazes intact.
The acting manager is elsewhere,
nowhere in range. And then
these intuitions or notions arise,
emitting strange radiation
all over the blasted room, bringing with them
lovely and familiar auspices of doom
to dispel the boredom.
My heart beats its bloody fists
against the window of my brain.
The resulting stain eats its way into the glass.
Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,
not on my five-to-ten year plan.
But who am I to be making plans?
Shouldn’t my plans be making me?