EVEN MONKEYS LOSE THEIR IPHONES
I could be a good dancer if the moon would stop staring at me.
Rainbows seem to always lead me into a biochemical ditch.
There is really no excuse for me to believe that consumerism
will distract me from becoming a cat-warrior of consequence.
I keep all my important passwords in a coffee can under the sink.
My grandfather taped a letter to the world onto the side of a coffee can
and dropped it into the bay after surviving 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
The mirror features me as the crumpled star of the midnight moccasin crowd.
My own Waterloo will be faced without even a ragged ceremony.
The Sunday drums were beating loud and long in the untutored suburbs.
A nasty curse directed at imposing pilgrims was concocted
during all the monkey business that had spilled over into the growing AI invasion.
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