Table of |
It's a planned obsolescence, carefully made
nail by nail with planks joined into walkways
an all encompassing meshwork,
an exoskeleton of wood and steel,
a rigid support as brick by brick the edifice rises floor by floor
as concrete and mortar are poured then hardened
into a permanent structure.
But soon all scaffolding must fall away
or rather be carefully disassembled.
And there stands the building on its own
firmly on the ground.
Like a toddler pushing his walker,
but then comes the time
he must put such childish things away
and stand firmly and freely all alone on the ground,
without a trace of even a brace remaining
and with nothing more than a foggiest memory
of his first arising from crawling.
REAL TIME CLICKS
Years ago when he first dialed phonesex inc. he fitted a condom over the earpiece.
But he no longer dials, for it's now the post rotary generation,
no more poking fingers into holes and twisting.
He stopped cruising red-light districts.
Now there=s cybersex,
no sweat, no pimples, no pimps, no odors, no bad attitudes,
and best of all no weird things swimming in his blood.
The messy tangible yields to the antiseptic virtual.
He just right clicks and dropdown menus list all his lusts
and ones he's yet to discover.
Wet dreams are correctly interfaced at x bucks per month.
Will she or won=t she? Will he or won't he?
Will he with she? she with he? he with he? she with she?
Will all with whomever?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Yes ad nauseam.
Yes, the whole shebang is willing if the Paypal account is good.
No more real time searching for that eternal clicking together,
for the odds today are fifty/fifty
that the delete key will eventually be pressed.
But if he is sated,
or for some other god-only knows reason
then his childhood hell-and-damnation Sunday school preacher,
that killjoy demon,
might suddenly manifest himself on the screen,
commanding him to follow the straight and narrow.
And so chastised he clicks his mouse repentantly,
not on the immoral left side but on the right,
to quit such midnight fantasies
at least until he boots up yet again
to lick the long leather footwear of Lady Buttslap Stern.
KEEPING PROPER FOCUS
It was a child's microscope,
a droplet universe pressed under a wafer-thin cover slip.
And between that watery film a wonder was revealed,
how a world inches from him was yet so distant.
Water evaporated, molecule by molecule,
and the bubble contracted to crushing closeness,
as paramecia below were corralled into an ever closing circle.
They could hardly move, then they no longer tried.
They fired trichocysts into the vanishing water,
and those harpoons evidenced their collective calamity.
They all ruptured their cell-membranes,
a population reduced to burst balloons.
And the once ordered organelles within
floated into a chaos without
that belonged to all, that belonged to none.
That was the way he saw their world end,
without fire, without ice,
but as bone dry residue
on a child's junior scientist discovery slide.