We are the room in post-internet. 

               We are the creators, 

                                      created, 

                                       and forgers in post-internet.

We set our prices and sign our own sex tapes. We

find our scores and curve the rules,

            tell the museums that.

The old Sears catalogs with the latest bras

 are now on the digital landscape billboards in

metropolises across the galaxy, with each pixel

a scene from The Simpsons or Spongebob or

Hopper—pick it, we’ll see it, we’ll leave it up to the killers.

There’s fan art of Mariya Takeuchi as if she

was synthesized in the Japanese psyche of a 

                                                                                             NEET

spending his Sunday at the maid cafes drawing one

of them as the Wendy's girl because

there are no relics anymore—

they’re now on the Heaven’s Gate website

                                                                                    (which is still up, by the way)

under the “Last Chance to Evacuate Earth” tab.

HTML hyperlinks got us too far.

Look at Zuckerberg’s medley of #’s

#truth                  #source                   #art 

We should tag Dictionary.com for being biased.

Words mean nothing behind vector lines because

we survived the internet, Y2K was the ending—

the final boss, the binary-coded rapture.

We pick up the pieces to make one more shot.