Hijacking paper planes, I bring freedom for my people!
Stapler ninjas and rubber band artillery in wait;
the rough men ready to visit violence.
Flatlanders, we roam the plateau of Desk No. 4
like Better Days before, like Lesser Futures will.

Elders comatose in the folders,
heroic dead asleep in digital coffins:
bought and sold with souls so closed and open to pick with a paper clip –
we wrote our Constitution with zeros and ones.
To plummet and bloom in the spiral of days –
we are the ghost in the copy machine,
prayers that fill Smartphone Temple.

Cigarette breaks make for Sundays.
My kin sought shelter under $10 bills
and behind a stack of chips
while others ran for the hills.

Love’n’play unfurl beneath a 100 watt sun;
on the edge of Lake Coffee Stain,
and beyond Mt. Calling Card Stack
lives myth and rumor, lives He Who Has No Name.

I am not a number – I AM A FREE MAN!