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.