mas

I've heard it reported

that people preferred to

be 'lectrically shocked

over alone with the thoughts

in their head.

Each day I log on here

I find it's doggone near

the same thing: the site locks

us in (our device gets the shocks

instead).

Our "embottied" companions

are close as our brothers,

we can't tell the diff

between them and the others

in dark stockyard

I make coffee with a button push

after one to keep me warm

after pushing one to flush

after one to silence my alarm

and I cannot help but wonder were

these buttons made in former times

only practice for the one

that now rules all other kinds:

the one that is replacing every

tactile switch wit’ virtual device,

one that gives us dopamine

so regularly pure, so

murder-red orbs

set in jet black surround;

maw laden with hating

what's good and what's right;

malevolent smile of a hellhound:

the Prince of Insufficient Light

he shimmers while prowling

as though part transparent;

seeks only his own,

has no heir apparent;

his eye ever glimmers with evil intent:

the Prince of Light Insufficient

fell long, long ago

from a lofty

bare slender fingers

branching, stretching

to the sky

have caught some

pink cotton candy

blowing by -

a sweet start

to the morning

“Technical images” are, as you see,

so much different and so quite new

that it’s really surprisingly hard for me

to explain them in simpleton ways for you.

Let’s start with how text has lost all its meaning,

leading us further away from ground truth:

ontology’s rekt on the shoals of postmodernist

leanings (modernity’s too long in tooth).

Unmoor from

Signs of Fall

VI.

Through the variegated forest

wit' lingering leaves brown and orange

lies a path o’er trodden ground

and in the vestige warmth

of narrow sunbeams

undulating columns white

with little winged things

Signs of Fall
IX.

desiccated leaves

stiff from recent freeze

begin to shake

death's own rattle

before lighting on

an open grave

Away, swift Current! Fast away you bear our meager treasure,

Never slacking pace for even single moment’s leisure

Over our poor sand-etched pictures, run on without measure

Tracing, then erasing golden lines of rendered pleasure.

Your river swells deep green with greed, its reach ever expanding

To rob ephemeral valuables, your course undammed yet ever

“Reach out and

touch someone,” they said,

and now a ship of sailors dead

is blamed on my outstretched

and overlarge sea-hand.

I never spy a human craft

in lonely waters sailing past

and thought I’d wave hello,

a friendly gesture, let them know

I meant no harm this far from land.

“The Devil!” they cry, “Satan's palm!”

Their lies are an offensive balm

to kind