Alissa Quart’s first volume of poetry, tentatively called Monetised, will be published later this year.
Our serrated landscape so full of digits: dial, keloid, data, roseate.
If trees are still ‘in’ we can thumb through not click-through.
Books are so over though. All those chyrons for The End. Tomorrow’s
programming is surely lethal. We are hanging on by a high thread count, glass
stemware of the old regime. A room of Vrooms. Let’s hope we’re perennial.
...
In Rome, they forget their time, though such forgetting is an error of sense. Forget an age of shoe bomber, of underwear detonator, of airplane null. Forget American Gosselin serialism: eight children they do not love; a dozen screens, playing losing games.
These are all signs; bright as a street corner, audible as punks-with-beasts.
New York’s dowdy water towers are sentinels...
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