Nº. 1 of  1318

ZSG


Poetry
Prose
~~~

The Singularity


…and we grew flowers that bloomed
OLED petals in the last few days of january,
in time for lovers to view
a bouquet of digital memories
a fortnight into february.

When human fingers touched,
it was no longer touch
that tickled the senses,
but the NFC sensors
springing to life and connecting to facebook
in order to bring up his latest posts
and the long lost pics from
her sophomore year
spring break trip
right into the mind’s eye.

Oh, it was due time
when we upgraded to Google Ajna;
I can’t imagine what imagining
was like without the implant,
without the processing power of AWS,
where we outsourced our brain power.

And I don’t know when we lost sight
of the world dying,
or why we couldn’t hook up
some silicone device on the bees,
the trees and the coral reefs so that
they’d let us know they were ill.
Siri was always so helpful;
if only she had been in direct connection
to nature.

We must not have gone far enough.


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napowrimo day 8

The Pangs

Please excuse the tardiness.
I’ll get to you, just
give me a couple hours.
Something came up
and there was traffic.
I ate a bad piece of sushi
and every fluid in my body
evacuated through my hind side.

Please forgive me.
I was busy with “things”,
unavoidable bullshit.
If only I could tell you
everything I’ve been through,
all the reasons I never got to
everything I’m after,
then you’d understand it.

The moment is out there,
if only I could get through
the cold spell at childbirth.
You should see how I’ve festooned
this womb. It’s wet and fucked up,
and there are balloons next
to the “Bon voyage!” signs
that leaked all of their air
many a push before.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

napowrimo day 7

Approximations


Reality is but an idea that
took place,
began to unfold,
and learned to bite its tail,

a snowball making sense of itself,

strings and clumps,
a matter out of what
democracy means
in the span of a blue
earth in a blue time,

baby, don’t hurt me,
no more.

Somehow it made sense
to pit idols against themselves,
in the depths of the human heart,
where we grow and become
one when we meditate,
perhaps when we die,
and when we
lift ourselves up
with the miasmata
of exotic shamans,
though we have to
make do
with only
ourselves,

and what we make
with skinny bones
and skinny hands,

and there’s a god inside each of us
learning to fit in the skin
of the paradox that gives
it eyes to the collapsing wave,

but he’s a bum.


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napowrimo day 2

Nº. 1 of  1318