Year of the Amateur

Recall the frontier when the business
of memory booms, when broadbands uncoil
and clouds swell with sticky portals, amassing
to a monsoon of live-streams.
Burn your chattel to keep the cloud afloat
so its tears can freeze to snow.
The voice flatlines in this season of pulp:
The artist makes miniature churches out of drain pulp,
The Indonesian rainforest is pulped,
the last illuminated gold leaves are pulped so we
gather and watch an otter nom nom
sweet urchin to a pulp.
We laugh softly.