Give me a dictionary.
I'll start at the M's
Machines
Manufacturing
Means
Meed – that's archaic,

Every little plastic letter clicking out
every little electric word on
every screen alive
with every kind of hardware made fitting
into every little slot from the start
and every little kid being told: don't change.
You don't need to.  We'll throw you out
and make a new one
cheaper than the cost to fake a poor dollar,
As easy as a computer chip.

Crunch!

I am sick of writing
cigarettes and weed
as I am of smoking
cigarettes and weed.

Replacing depression with
a paralyzing stimulant
that I can only burn down
when I'm high – completely

What is the consistency of soap?
Like rubbing goosebump-streaks
all over my hands
again

and again,
Grit raked bloody little rows

I drain it with more soap.

My fingers still smell like tobacco no matter what I do.
Resin stains the rented sink:
THC is not soluble in water
nor is the stench of ashes.

I expect the day
I will type the poem of my elegy

And my house burns down around me.