writing about technology, and vice-versa.
When I turned my iPhone back on as we taxied to the gate
preparing for a dash for my connecting flight
a voicemail had arrived:
The following is important information about your flight
which has been cancelled due to an earlier cancellation
due to weather in your area.
And this is how they told me I’d be emerging from the airport
an abstractly secure place with seemingly no connections
to the city around it
I only learned today that the local anesthetic
my dentist used for extracting part of a tooth
and building up a partial, stumpy bit
of composite resin
in preparation for a later, larger
extraction of cash for a crown
My sons march on the same earth
I practiced on a different century ago
but that was before I tried writing a novel
getting married, watching
Remains of the Day.
I can’t recognize the place
because the new band room
and a fence has been added on
and so much grass has grown
since then.
As shown in a movie like Lost in Translation
best experienced with headphones, the way
sounds of a strange city come at you wrong
out of phase
are what separate you from the self
that worries about the past and future, which
liberates you for a moment
which must nevertheless be saved up for,
and paid with interest.
I stare at the tangible presence
evoking forwarded messages
a taste of lemonade from 1978
an avatar made with a flip-phone
and connected with an inadvertent
Google+ account.
only pixels arranged in a certain way.
If they’re tolling a church bell
You figure all is well
In your little farming town
Where you have it there you have it there you have it
But if a storm should come one day
And wipe the steeple all away
You wouldn’t have it wouldn’t have it wouldn’t have it
After sickness and a snowstorm
(no really, even here)
I can’t seem to recreate
the conditions under which
I create.
Leave it unlocked on the sidewalk by the side
of a road of unsuspecting people: No one will steal it
unless they see it for what it is, and then no lock
will be proof against it.
keeps aging in staccato bursts
as we work through a Blu-Ray set
a certain set of his jaw
a burst of gunfire.
Now a fork in the pleasant desert road
causes me to wonder what
causes him what joy in the evening
A chilled salad fork and revenge.
One of three or four
or five or six or seven
times I don’t know why.
poetrytech 