livingtech

flying in and out of real life
some kind of psychic link with the interface
the lines between computer and human blur
hands that don’t leave home row
shift into the computer
until I am attached at the wrists
the typewriter eating William S. Burroughs
has nothing on me because
I am eating the computer, my eyeballs
sink into the monitor like drops into water
the surface tension pulls the rest of my head after
CTR-W, CTR-W, CTR-W, but it won’t close
I can’t ESCAPE, CTR-ALT-DEL does nothing,
but I’m able to CTR-C, ALT-TAB, CTR-V myself
into the next document
noting the timestamp here is much later
and there is no bloated Word markup
marching at me from the margins
I’ve CTR-S’d myself,
for the moment at least, and I
breath a comma of relief

He’s showing off his new phone
the one he took to the strip club
coughing every time he took a picture
because he didn’t know at the time
how to turn off the fake shutter sound.

So we’re all standing around
squinting at this tiny, grainy
picture of a naked woman at the strip club.
We are twice removed
from real sex.

The poems from today sucked. So you get this unfinished tidbit instead:

—

defragment your fat
the plastic circuit surgeon
snips a few bytes from under your input devices,
and you’re good as factory refurbished
out of the box beautiful
gorgeous command lines
command line curves
root like a rose in june

On Creating Crucifixes

It is only natural for them to build things in their own image.
Believing, as many of them do, that they were built
in the image of one who built them in his image.

 

Believing in destiny after the fact.

Because it happened,
The thing that happened
Was meant to happen
Duh!

 

Logic will only get you so far.

Imagining too few possibilities
makes everything logical.
Imagine too many possibilities
and nothing is logical.

Your markers foul my brain
with their lovely scents
and their highlight-like colors
screaming your white praises
off the wall at the merest felt stroke.

Your holy whiteness
marred by years of words and lines
left too long on your alter of ivory,
surface shiny like wolf’s teeth,
you are the hunter’s spear-head.

You exist for storms of brains
from torrents of cold frozen brain-hail
to light-pink brain-rains with a chance of
grey-matter sunshine peeking out from pink clouds
later in the meeting.

hot metal lines
etched on grass colored plastic
silicon envy
bigger and better parts
pressed flat for fitting
with case fans and power supply
slippery slithering electrons
team up to tell stories in pixels