“Dumbfoundry,” by Mark Scroggins
Dumbfoundry
Isn’t it grand when the rumors
turn out to be true?
as the videos flicker
across the laptop, I reach out
and press my fingers
to the screen: blowtorch
that steady, penetrating
scrutiny of men and
affairs, while the wind
blows pixels of money
from hand to mouth, uncounted
accounts: we are bought
and sold through direct
deposits and mail-order
catalogues, but is
my price-tag showing?
Intelligence, said some
four-eyed elitist sod,
is a moral category: overworked
here in the dumbfoundry,
compulsory monogamy
goatfuct usufruct:
facing the future white-knuckled,
fanatical equanimity hanging out
the front of my trousers.
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