Communist Manifesto ;^)

An automatic dishwasher cured my depression
four angled lines like that across the carpet or across the lawns outside
and time ticking up on the clock that now decides my day
outside a green space and weeds growing and the rich retiree’s hired hand’s machines
buzzing and keeping time with the cicada and the house fly in my kitchen.

I’m here literally, still without toaster or carpet or couch,
peeling tape off of wood glued landlord special, or more like peeling tape
off of something I’ve done in an attempt to mend something with broken tools.

I am repeated phrases I’ve heard before,
trying to be artistic like Lin Manuel Miranda or Bo Burnham,
trying to be creative and cool and well liked by future moms.

It can be funny and 
calm and
seep out of my fingers
like a bloodline spellcast.