Post-Infinite

 Where you are- do you imagine Idaho?
We're here     staring,  
digesting capricious sweeps 
on a mundane kitchen floor-.
T'with a head right on a baseball bat, 
whiffing of annulation.
We smoke gaspers, 
call them hackers,
 we had a mass shootin, 
call'd it- keeping with the news.

Imagine you, organic beyond all fixing- having-too-much-fun.
I imagine some quota of slack
 packed neatly between and around any fact.
Where you are                     without fail,
 stuck with a nail to a glowing (s)hell,              crucified,
 a typified suffering; 
mine is a special brew made right here in Idaho, 
where I am- pecked by an by- 
where you are-a specter of flaws - mirthlessly known.