I ping pong between machines

for what? To calibrate my steps

towards the dirt nap? To tend my cell,

my contusions? To email the news

of a fellow cognate's imminent promotion

from this warring plain?

Praying the bantam shifts

I've confessed

strike God's fancy

as alternate plans

to push the days forward,

not back because

falling from fucked

to fascism

wears you down.

Deletes your decorum.

Makes for uncivil discourse

and thus, this poem.