It’s the End by Angeline Rohan

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world

It’s the End

by Angeline Rohan

Diary, the world is battered and fried;
It’s sitting in a pool of grease at McDonald’s–
Past closing time.
I mean it;
like I meant it when I said in ’98,
that I’d never eat french onion Sun Chips again .
Diary, tell the world I’m sorry,
I can’t lie to it anymore.
Tomorrow TMZ will have the story
fresh from my mistress world’s scarlet mouth.
I’m cheating on it with the world I have in my head.
A world at peace:
one with free gas,
Willy Wonka’s chocolate rivers,
and a limited amount of Facebooks posts, that infuriate me
more than rude walkers at the mall, that hip check you–
in between the aisles of Macy’s jewelry displays.
‘Oh, yes, how did you know I wanted to bounce
into Jessica Simpson’s watch collection, fine pedestrian
Let’s take a minute to savor days when
Cell phones did not breathe in our palms,
and live off of our own pulse:
Dudum…dudum.
Days when our laptops and IPADS weren’t being shuffled for
in the bottoms of our backpacks,
in between eco-friendly notebooks,
stuck with soggy, abandoned pieces of Big Red;
a time When our iPhones weren’t stuffed into the already
tight pockets of our skinny (fat) jeans.
Let’s remember when we were simply:
unreachable-
untouchable-
living but nonexistent–
without posts on Facebook,
to show people we’re still alive:
Work until 4:00 p.m and then I’m going to the gym.
Who cares?
Probably no one–
not even your mother who told you:
Baby, someone will love you, one day, despite your irregular back hair patterns.
Cut the social media off of your cerebrum.
Dig in there with a shiny, silver scalpel,
and flick it off.
You don’t need a degree in medicine,
or your own Mount Vesuvius of student loans, to know–
that the thirteen hours you’re awake–
depositing coins spent to look at a flickering screen–
is borderline insane.
Consider yourself blessed if the only things
you have to complain about are parking,
and SUNY Cortland’s horrible food selection–
through status updates.
Click– Post– Like.
Shut up for 1 minute.
No, probably 20–
That’s good enough.
Wait an hour.
Make that 24–
to show you how silly it is to live life
in a broken wheeled computer chair,
from Walmart;
your back, a hunched question mark,
and your eyes squinty, lemony-sour holes.
It’s a disease:
Un-diagnosable–
Untreatable.
We’re doomed.
This is the apocalypse;
the contagion;
the Y2K.
Call Bear Grylls,
or fly Liam Neeson down here.
Hey, I’m telling you we’re doomed.
Hello? Is anyone there?
What?
Pass you that Apple charger?
–Yeah, sure.
The WIFI in here sucks.
–I’m going to call the Landlord tomorrow.
Oh, what am I doing?
Just writing a poem….
I hate it when I’m right.

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