the mark of our society
is everywhere anxiety;
with information
overload
our greatest notoriety
i cannot sleep for worrying
and freaking out, and hurrying,
i’m stuck, i think,
on panic mode,
in snow that’s always flurrying
in towers made of messaging
our own misfortunes presaging
i dream of walls
and banquet halls
and none of it is lessening
the mark of our connectedness
is what a brother-dunking mess
we find inside
the cyanide
we pour into each new abscess
our interweb, an interlace,
this disarray is our disgrace,
so many screens
just magazines
to show another frantic
face