Myopic rhymes with biopic. I’m Emerson’s eyeball looking down at my cellphone and calling it the Cellph. A little teardrop of transcendental philosophy: “Anyone who’s ever seen anything has never seen anything really.” That’s Flatt’s futile freaking attempt to destabilize the attention economy. He’s like Tron materializing into the system to turn the comments off. Mute them dishonorable mentions. Because our babies bottle online, our parents play death like it’s Tetris, and y’all past the horizon of being able to hear your own thoughts. Too much on the to-watch list. Shit, not enough memory for memories. Touch—screen; face—surface; time—line; space—single. The darkroom of the developing mind has the dimensionality of an office park. So he’s kidnapped me for an interval, trapped me in a glass jewel case, and snapped a few dimes in his Euclid jukebox. Tapping on the keys like the last deer in a cemetery. I appreciate him for trying. I Can Focus If I Try by Michael Flatt (Kinfe Fork Book, 2023).
