Classic Poem

America, forgive
this apostrophe, I'm
channeling Whitman--
he says his atoms
are rushing into the veins
of the new revolution,
he's assimilating
into phosphor dots, trying
to form a sincere face,
he's easing through
our labyrinth with a new heart,
pulsing in the cursors
in a remote chatbox on the eve
of the apocalypse--
the future is pixellating
into his beard, he is
singing:

a million Trojan horses
are circling the skies--
beware the dark dreams
spinning above you