My cultural moment came and went.
Now the useless pendant chafes my neck,
brings to mind remaindered analytic books
whose theses chased the waddling ass
that lapped me on the straight-away.
I let it pass and listened to their twaddle.
The blubbering cheeks squidge on. Their route?
I couldn’t say. There was an instant,
back in the day, when I felt more a fan
in the mosh pit, drenched in foam spit spray,
than this living-room-Netflix-watching
after-the-fact yellow-crusted eye.
Whatever it was, it’s come and gone
while my remote-clicking finger twitches on.
