hipster zechariah (poem)

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the prophets are long gone
our fathers, too
no one remembers where
or

when our culture met this untimely demise
with sufjan crooning in our ears
we could hardly hear the sounds
of our patriarchs
singing their death rattles

just another percussive hum
indexed to my vocoder
and i on a loop
repeating the sins of someone else’s father

staggering under the weight of
this heartbreak, my life’s work

all of the examples above
of white men gazing at their navels in the sky
— except adam, who has none
where does he gather his family’s lint?
memories are a burden, too

only steeped in irony
blanched like greens, sincerely,
can we bear another cycle
nothing lives forever but
life as art as life as art as art as art

and i on a loop
repeating the sins

and i on a loop
and i on a loop

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