Tombstone for a Boomer

Decide to promote myself on spacebook, blowtube, twitface, plus a scramble of other platforms. Post vids of myself reciting poetry while dancing in mini-skirt, pantyhose and platform shoes on a plywood stage in the backyard.

My wife apologizes to her friends, “Just a stage he is going through. All the poets do such things these days.”

I don’t have any friends. Just a buncha links through her sites. Which I spam with cartfuls of pitiful bullshit.

Today I’m downloading a rondeau about turning ninety as the World War II Centennial rolls around. A last surviving Boomer still sputtering. Maybe I can re-enact at Treblinka an ancient gypsy rousted off the boxcar, handed a rock touted as a bar of soap, herded into the shower.

Though by then I’ll likely already be cremated; given the cheapie on the pittance Social Security awards for your having kicked the can, thereby exiting the rolls. Unless by then I’m driving a Rolls, having made a mint self-promoting on Bumblr, Twaddle, BlinkedIn, whatever other overkill weakens me.

I watch on the screen, week by week, day by day, the minutes go by. Waiting for that nano-second when the farm I buy. Meantime killing time sweating to fill the net with my wind.

Willie Smith

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