Inevitable, the time clock that hangs around in your sinus cavities, the tension of
inhaling and exhaling and checking your inbox, at
a customary stage, not, steady enough, to take your jeans off
not, at ease enough, to refrain from it,
your words as to the vagueness of an end game.

I’ll send you a clip from a popular sketch-comedy television show, and one of a man
who injures his ankle in a gruesome way;
in between I’ll watch a hot girl do something, Saddam hanged until dead, and
trade you one kind of unfreedom for another,
and act toward your border states as if they were the developing world,
but a team of scientists finds a gigantic ring of invisible material left over from
the ancient collision of galaxy clusters; they announce it as this most
convincing evidence for the mysterious stuff called dark matter; but an
online social network popular with teenagers shares with state attorneys
the identities of members who are known sex offenders.

I’ll send you a clip of the gayest weatherman ever,
I’ll send you a clip of Japanese people, and a drunken kitten.

Let me treat you like a sparsely inhabited or virtually unsettled land —
let’s do what robots do.