elegy for new media

 the sour candy musicals our mother made us watch in the 80s. 

i have started to make careful lists of the items you will need when you return. suppose there really is no god of antimatter. the plane dipped, the music swelled, and the grand canyon opened up below like a gash or a cunt. 

the only thing i could think to say when I saw your body was “I’m sorry.” everything has either regressed or metastasized since you left. remember to put in your earplugs; vibrations from the heavy sighing can deafen at these decibels. awkward. that’s what the kids say. awkward.

there is a classifiable syndrome for every symptom you can imagine. i can’t even write a cover letter till the DSM-5 is released. i have catalogued all of your notes and I am waiting for your gloves to come back to life in my hands.