Fourth Poem

The idea of the future as an abstract concept is a point of division between people. This division basically boils down to utopia/distopia. This opposition has always interested me and my attitude about it changes day to day and according to my mood. It makes me think that instead of thinking about the future per se, it might be more fruitful to think that what we are in today was once considered the future, and that this truism extends back to the beginning of time. Conversely, the idea that "the future" will one day become the present and ultimately the past is also equally and always true. What is time? What does the breakdown of time and linearity do to the worlds of fashion and technology, what is the relationship between capitalism and time? Broad, perhaps too broad. These questions are only loosely connected with this poem, which is entitled "the future."


We special.

We rich.

Piled high.

Incredibly dense,

mound sinks, to compress.

Into what?

How could we say?

A worm hole forms.

Drops it in the park

of a summers day,

Scatters everyone. An ice cream

cart explodes, sending spray.

Sweet drops dogs lick.



the hole at the bottom of which the future pulses

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