for Matthew Damon

Cursive's rules, its loops and curlicues, reveal a lot about us.
Perhaps its best we lay it to rest, buried along with the worst
of our secrets and plotting and lies; a nice clean typography
will better keep us in line. It's fine, don't worry, the quatrains
will be running on time, everything kept under strict control
while the sinuous, inveterate signature of our blossoming
gets rectified by autocorrection with machine-like precision.
Farewell to our sensuous rhythm. Welcome the fascist rule.