20/20

Holy cow.
Oh boy.
Zero balance.
Overdrawn.
Ameri-con.
Cartoony.
Caricatures of civilization.
Characters.
Characterizations.

Waitresses and waiters:
”Can we get the...”
Gotta gut-
check.
Stimulation.
Lack is now
an occupation.

This tightrope
on which we
totter upon
is nothing.
Knot anymore.
We tied one on.

A noose on a lasso
lynch-like.
ITS A TRAP!
Circus act.
Rodeo clown.
Can’t get
back up.
Staying in,
staying down.

Post ‘19 life.
Co-vivid
nightmarity.
Blue and red,
white
and not
alike all
scaredy,
like a kitty.

Squeaky blind mice,
sea to
the shining.
See how we run.
Into ourselves.
Empty like shelfs.

Back to our holes.
Running out
only
to gather food,
but never
to mass-gather.
No show.
No pro-
test.

Interest-ingly
anticlimactic
how we
acclimated easily.
It’s all too sketchy.
Banking on statements
blank as our stares;
as we blink
in disbelief
at these screens
in antiquated,
mass-manipulated,
perplexed anticipation.