(༎ຶ￢༎ຶYEAR ZERO°͡° ͜༎ຶ ਊ ༎ຶ`°͡°FACILITY༎ຶ.̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̸̨̨̨̨̨̨̨.̸̸̨̨۝ ༎ຶ༽)



POETRY
03-29-02023

A / The / This / MyFace . . .
. . .  is a dollar bill protest board g̷̨̰͉̰͖͋̽͗̉͑̇̽̑͝l̵̨̳̰̫͋i̴ṫ̵̡̲̹͉̠̪̺̦̝͙͛̂̈̎̍̉̀͘c̵̡̱͘͝ḩ̷̧̖͙̥̖͎̲̇ͅi̴n’ out digitally,

my face . . .

. . . is booored



—bored & aging gracefully, on trajectory toward silverfox status.

A lucky face restin’ back on these 𝙃𝙀/𝙃𝙄𝙈 contures—hiding mother, crone & crop-top.

Yeh, yeh, every face has a story and mine’s convenient enough . . .
(my face can use any 𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 room)
. . . cause my face is the Face of Commerce . . .

. . . as pretty as its lifestyle accessories . . . 𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙱𝙾𝙼𝙱𝚂 𝚒𝚝

—codes its flows, colonizes it with a . . .
But wait! . . . 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁! 𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻!
—a faceless movement till powers point long guns

—a mean-mug to sling mud at

—a libidinal mirror to deny with a smash. . .
& on & on & on & on & on & on & on & on &



Everyone is the face of a movement . . .
. . . unchosen most oft.
Face as function, as politics, as a land to be exploited.

The face was a the landscape,

Long before the land was a facescape.

Now my face is a wall of white . . .

. . . facades—with seven

black h⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫⚫les

𝙞𝙣-𝙣-𝙤𝙪𝙩 the data flows.

I keep it manicured; plucked & shaved & poreless . . .

. . . clandestine.

Like an exhausted border guard . . .

. . . in【𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿▀ʖ▀𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗲𝘀】that hide the nervous tics poorly;

𝙞𝙣-𝙣-𝙤𝙪𝙩 drugs & coyotes flow.
A / The / This / My



Face . . .
. . . hard BLESSED to see & hear so well,

but 𝕲𝖔𝕯 𝕯𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖉 if it's ever seen & heard anything . . .
. . . true



This face doesn’t talk as much as it used to.

Posted up on a body, head in clouds

—shoulders, knees, and toes—

curling into grass, eyes skyward.
A / The / This / MyFace . . .
The perpetual top tier on the tower of 𝔹𝔸𝔹𝔼𝕃.

Sure as death to fall to the dust, but still

. . . feeling good as a bridge between Heaven & Earth.