My generation’s skull shines with a special brilliance, ears pierced for wearing bling,
faces concealed, made youthful by Mac makeup,
not depressed by the bleakness of a broken staircase
made slippery by summer storms.
My generation cheats past textbooks,
the pages don’t A D D up quick enough,
ignoring the knowledge that is beyond the History Channel,
thinking life’s obstacles are too boring if not uploaded
running from feeling unimportant is comforting
as smartphones film them cramming into a teabag filled
with 3DHD cameras,
my generation stares at their computer as they are
lowered into a tea kettle filled with scalding water.
The stages of burning skin are purely for entertainment.
My generation laughs in medicated circles,
sleeping off last night’s intoxicant, frustrated,
because their life will not be exposed by an unauthorized biography, written by a disgruntled personal assistant,
scrutinized by media while inspiring reality television shows.
My generation stares down at their smartphone,
stepping toward a broken staircase that hangs over
the stairs disappear into a black storm cloud.
Television tells my generation,
it’s okay, keep moving,
the stairs lead to success and the rain improves beauty.
Summer storms maintain the slip of the broken staircase,
guaranteeing my generation’s fall,
streaming it live onto Facebook while they tweet
the approaching temperature,
watching themselves falling into the lava
as they stare at their palms wondering why the smartphone
knowing something is wrong,
yet too distracted to change,
my generation continues satisfied.