Smh at the omen from hearing two AI robot sex doll references in an hour gone quick from screen-based stress. Where do they go when you die? To dust your robot will return. Return the faulty solar-powered power trip over something only borderline faulted like the tremor from an earthquake branch in rural California. No immunity to tech hand caressing the sunburned skin of the enemy. Get out there c’mon! Do your duty! Bar fight emperor cowboy doesn’t-get-why-illegals-are-legal goes home to the wife and yeah you know gets his wounds licked while licked loser stumbles back and makes a couple phones calls wink wink looks like missus gets the late shift tonight and all others from now on. It’s an omen. Does this model come in pretty sunburnt?
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1