Cap’n Scrunch

Plastic girl doing the dashboard hula hoop
out of the loop nothing to do
but wait for the waves to crash over me,
painted garbage  piled high reaching the sky,
a foul mountain of refuse and denial
and returned post packages, a tumbling
self-combusting compost heap of history
and redundant technology.
Decaying layers of laser printers under the dark mat
of tangled HDMI cables and cracked phone screens,
a ship load of lithium and cobalt tailings
all my failings dragged into one vile heap.

I’ll have it for you at the end of the week.

I have your unique disease.

I have nothing to harvest but for dry topsoil
and dead crunching stalks of skeletal wheat.

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