To the Year I Played Baby Jesus at a Month Old[1]

Alt-country will never live up to Quicksand/Cradlesnakes, for me.
Back button. The country’s alternative, a body cam, shows it changes nothing, so we
click through, a collective commentariat. Click back. Maybe this piece will be a
dead-tree version of this currently typed Word Doc. Lacking a point, I
e-commernce my way through a life, back-tracking, a
fashionista of life’s fashion, to get back to the point that I was a
game changer, reaching my hand up to portrayed-David’s face,
haolier than any other baby in attendance, or more conveniently timed.
I think back to an education of protest, cycle through the
jukebox musical of work more attuned, more of time — I’m sure a
keylogger watches me type poems and questions their use. Anyways,
lipa comes from linden tree, a (not-)lime tree. I
mouse potato my way through other flora:
night-blooming cereus, night-blooming jasmine,
orchids opening across the screen. Bloom, from Old Norse blómi:
prosperity. I google “[insert flower] symbolism.”
Query: who decided what each and every flora means. I imagine a
robocaller, “Hell-o, wouldyou like to in-ter-pret a ro-ose?” Someone holds a
santoku, “literally, ‘three-virtues (knife),’” and cuts through my bullshit. I’ll
tiyin tyiyn tie in further modern times, currencies introduced,
URLs both uniform and universal, or I’ll introduce my own
v-chip so you can’t see what I’m getting at. Let’s go to a
web page where the word of the day is holy writ, now that’ll represent my
xenocryst life, one hidden in that rose bush. The other words introduced this year are
yottabyte, and
zettabyte. “We have unleashed a torrent of words.”

Note: for the most part, this poem relies on words added to Merriam-Webster in 1993 for the beginning of lines, pulled from Merriam-Webster's Time Traveler feature.