I. Your eyes lit like screens, from inside the commodity I find a likeness of you It unfolds, again, again, in a mass of flora scented like the real thing Of all the 3-D printed mansions, which one suits you? “there’s maybe a higher chance of it fracturing at the contact point if there’s a strong enough force” There’s maybe a river, underneath, where fish have squatted the mall There’s a future I’ve only glimpsed from the promises lapsed Your car spinning, where the parking lot will be   Pressed on by a dream, a liquidation sale of my nineteenth century obsession w/ everyday life Versus all the oceans that tug Versus the romance of circulation Versus if I’m rare will you keep me     II. In the consumer dream house all the light pours down from above Electronic dolls whirr in the hallways, cleaning Panoramas are boxed in by cameras no longer in our hands   Walking the boulevards is not what it was—Virgil and I try it and we are bent and frozen, trying to make it to the steps of the museum. 200 years of African American art is housed in one room. A small room. Later we walk through many large rooms of medieval armor. The shell casings of cyborgs spit up from the past. In the dark of the Buddhist temple, stolen and then we speculate housed in a warehouse full of stolen temples, it must have languished in the dark for a long time. The paint is not allowed to fade. We wonder if the miniature temples carved and added to the ceiling at a later date were meant to house birds. No birds animate the ceiling now. Tourists make Buddha poses. Hey yr not in Oakland anymore.   In the dense realms of wishful thinking I am always being betrayed, or else a friend is falling off One of those dream houses I can’t stop looking at the light –or- I cannot save anyone     III. Each greenhouse: an intricate music box of sadism Every plant a handcuff               my reading technology fades with laziness not cus it doesn’t feel pretty good Cultish robes get moldy then get all silicon valley “I had a car”                           I had it remelted to my form Somewhere in the ruins of dead objects, every overdraft fee screenprinted onto teeshirts Somewhere along this avenue of goblins, I have picked up pagan belief (Google ad preferences tell us about our interest in astronomy tho its riots we talk about to measure distances but it's no wonder stars appear throughout)     (all our friends got into astrology)   If I turn my head enough, and shake and shake and shake like you tell me Everything I said before might become different Everywhere we thought we were going might become the hell we abandoned before   1) Here's someone to greet you, w/ these flowers the size of yr new avatar’s head 2) Here is agitation foaming up like water, tmrw, another necessary clutter, another letter with a bunch of names, another chance to be called a witchhunt 3) The witchbread you eat all the time     IV. A slashed angel lies where work was: baby back wings & summer Incorrect gloopy time Whose gonna be witness to the pause of refusal With no record of moving parts   Just-in-time-gloom: A drone hummingbird stands watch by our shoulders Datamining waste Dropping bits of goo from its mouth which falls on our heads   The meat axe, the pickaxe, the rope, and the coffeeshop move against the metropolis Human sandbags loiter, causing a pileup A traffic circle has many points of stoppage The highway we took by mistake becomes easy with more bodies faster into the pause   -OKI SOGUMI Oki Sogumi was born in Seoul, lives in Philadelphia (recently transplanted from Oakland), and writes poetry, speculative fiction, and into little boxes on the internet. She dreams commune dreams.