CYBORG MUSINGS

into the hand i glow
cheshire and toothy

evocative blue symbols
transmit across airspace

cupped in concentration
enter the mind at warp speed

trigger the trip switch
of understood and recalled

suction of kiss
intimate grip

beyond corporeal presence
mystic colors arise then dissolve

at the same time there as here
a languid swoon

for lack of real contact
but worthwhile in the meanwhile

to check and recheck
these humming communiques

she explores dignity’s
dimensions
bends metal
with her mind

this motivational surge
compelled by conviction
not truth
is interrupted by “DROID” alerts

she ponders the plodding
accuracy of artisans
[if the railing turns a corner
inaccurate measurements
can occur]
so many studs to consider

she finally sees the difference
between brain machinations
and anvil
parallel fires

as she descends
into her sanctuary
full of unread Taoist tomes
decades of paper to shred

stock travel in trucks
edible leaves out of reach

in this car, self portraits
accumulate in virtual piles

some friends do not reply
but share salient articles

daily vocabulary appears
plenary, in single incidents

the feel of dreams, deep
in hypothalmic juice

the sink is polished,
mayonnaise away, order reigns

We weren’t serious but had to be electrically adept, get the attic door painted, and re-grout the bathroom. My affective filter registered low so it was time to choose a Life Stage Management plan. Nano was the new mini and we couldn’t honestly hang that blue fruit basket in the kitchen without impinging our view into the desiccated front yard. We were roaming around with head lice in an identity piece connected to suffragettes. There was the hope of a reflective partner, someone with a well developed angular gyrus , able to utilize a stepping stone approach. Once we’d covered the basics of organization-navigation and located application pointers in the dock, we were ready to unlock each others’ passwords. We found what we wanted by rotating our desktops then put the house icon on top.

we echo like se awful
remake poorly filtered

cross our arms and look
down on the trendy

grimace of the ten
year old as he confronts

his empty wishing well
full of cell phone fantasy

and late night swims
hidden in the dark

a place our aging
hearts rarely venture

that death place
that earliest fall