“Ode to Browsing the Web” by Marcus Wicker

“Ode to the Browsing the Web” by Marcus Wicker

Two spiky-haired Russian cats hit kick flips
on a vert ramp. The camera pans to another

pocket of the room where six kids rocking holey
T-shirts etch aerosol lines on warehouse walls

in words I cannot comprehend. All of this
happening in a time no older than your last

heartbeat. I’ve been told the internet is
an unholy place—an endless intangible

stumbling ground of false deities
dogma and loneliness, sad as a pile of shit

in a world without flies. My loneliness exists
in every afterthought. Yesterday, I watched

a neighbor braid intricate waves of cornrows
into her son’s tiny head and could have lived

in her focus-wrinkled brow for a living. Today
I think I practice the religion of blinking too much.

Today, I know no neighbor’s name and won’t
know if I like it or not. O holy streaming screen

of counterculture punks, linger my lit mind
on landing strips—through fog, rain, hail—

without care for time or density. O world
wide web, o viral video, o god of excrement

thought. Befriend me. Be fucking infectious.
Move my eyes from one sight to the next.

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