Impostor impostor syndrome
America’s credit cards are confused
and our celebrities keep dying, maybe
at a rate graphed along an illuminati
scatter plotted parallel to the ratio
of machines for chip inserts and those
reading magnetic strips. We’d like that,
think those in my head
who wish for fate and meaningful
capitalism. Why this? Isn’t order
what I just didn’t want? Isn’t it all
random like the internet is
big, like God is big, shiny and ascending
in front, 2D Jesus? Half a lifetime
is experienced by 7 is how memory
structures its bandwidth. Sometimes,
I’m opening as a MacBook,
like when the love is going well
and I’m only hiding sadness about
how I’m going to die
if you don’t first. While the dream
of drone delivery is always almost
happening I’m likely deciding
on all sides of an equation:
do you ever lose that living in a
robot feeling? Is it till death
you’re outside the city
a movie’s referencing,
technology that should’ve been
purchased, the son you could
be, the closest thing
to acceptance wherever the
camera isn’t pointing?
Austin Beaton is maybe sleeping inside a human shaped robot. He woke up and realized he’s in charge of 8 Twitter accounts. So, his poems right now are about the internet of the nervous system. Read another, here.