we are people waiting in the sunlight,
going after stimulus
after stimulus after stimulus.
we are disenchanted:
girls sitting, stitching
embroidery into pants—
boys making suits
from torn-off skins, the flesh
still wet and rotting.
we are taken from text and
retold as myth:
a New Generation, all jazzed
all pixelated,
reliving 2003 like we were scene kids
and not toddlers.
we fell asleep in 2006—had our sexual
revolution in Mexico City moshpits
and woke up Adults:
we are
internet nostalgia.
poem: the kids from yesterday
the last pavilion 