. . . hook-up, and you were there too
waiting; knowledge is that unreliable
season or illness, control
then becomes myth
although a useful one, the net’s
working hum jacks into rooms
we rush to fix it
once, i am sure, we sat staring
at the same image at the same moment—
a kind of 21st Century tenderness that
synergy and words
falter accordingly . . .
it’s that state of constant looking
that syringes our lives, solders our
agility to look away, ways
sluice out into open spaces . . .
loading . . .
various nations die online;
some imaginations do that, corroded
and privatized, the world is harvested
out from under, muted in
click click i thought the words would
without puppet dictators
me and my naïve mac
light is not all the same quantity
or price; even it betrays the flesh
crashes aren’t nature-loving, aren’t
used to being
more than occasionally
and so we sit
late at night
waiting . . .
spun truths, the either/or of pixels,
that is where my heart may have been lost
not a fantastical heart but
beating like in a deep sleep: slowing, slowing, slowing . . .