The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

have to drink out of glass.
carry it everywhere and it dangles from their wrists
like a god. a little water sloshing at the bottom,
always there, just that little bit of water, not enough to drink,
but there like it would matter eventually and yet it is lost,
the lost water, the nothing warming water useless
because in too small a container. always more water wanted,
but it must be in glass and therefore never enough water,
but the dangle and the message and the belief
that it is healthier because of it all, but is it? Is it?

the texting hipster who doesn’t know
that the texting device makes him uncool
in the realm of former hipsters, but not caring.
the interview with the rock star: what apps do you use?
the lost generation, the t.v. dazed text starved supra socialized now gents and ladies
of uncoolness. get it now, the moment, catch it.
remember when it was just at parties they would bring out the photo albums?
now it is always. how old we’ve become in our youth.
little old scratching melters into each other
where warmth belongs to digitalized mommies fast screen daddies and you.
waaaa. mama papa we are the now generation, the new generation
where we can watch tv all day, motherfucker!

the guy who made it in academia.
matters while the rest of us flounder and forget
and remember that we don’t matter because we weren’t vetted
and we can’t wear ties and fedora’s and flowers in our lapels
but we can sport the floppy boots and the red nose
and we can cry and eat shit and remember that our past is as gone
as their future is in front of them
because they have a whole lifetime of being known
as the ones who matter in the art that you suffered through,
got caught through, burned through, failed through,
asked for everything through and got nothing through.
daft you. wise they.

america wider knowing it’s got nothing on this,
the land where ideas matter, people are trying,
innocence has been celebrated and innovation praised,
no where out there compares. it is all death delight and long views
fetid streets with locals and no entry no money
and suspicion of strangers.
only in the mountains or the liberal seas can a wanderer find a home.
the rest is for the short view and the flickering light
in somber houses late night.

the smart one who knows 1s and 0s and can code
and can know and is young and is the future
and is living inside of the box and we don’t know him
and he doesn’t know us and he is math and we aren’t
and the way the world is to work he will speak and we will not
and it will not be language that we know, but that they know
and transactions will take place because of it
and our food will become cold because bad and theirs will stay hot
and will go fast and taste great because they knew
and it all had to do with the simple fact that nobody, nobody,
nobody talks or even looks at anybody on the street anymore.
it all comes down to the creation of methods to eliminate you
and everyone you know away from me and vise versa.

the woman with the hitler mustache made of a band aid
walks in the sun with an umbrella and a stern look
while vaping a cigarette, a long black one that looks like a real stick
and when she looks up she sees again the world
and her feet keep her walking and there is no rain
and even the sun is not that burning
it’s just that there is no other way to be.

the past, the very recent survival mode, is in you in a stolid sad way,
making the world of the inner become something slow
when the inner isn’t slow, making the world seem dull
when the world is not dull.
it has no color, unless grey (greenish) is a color
which I guess it is, but it has nothing to it.
it is wasted time in exchange for money. it is like a shit.
it must be released and soon.
They will try to convince you that it matters, but it doesn’t.
it matters only to them and you do not play a part in the equation
except in the basest of ways.
The cog.