Published July 2015
Invective,
whispered
Invective,
whispered, in the neon night. An owl begs for blindness. The air, rearranged as
rhythmic eyes. Implosion: Trees recede. The debris of constant zeroes rains
down, down, down. The ground an electric chair. Death becomes us: We wear it
like the shadow of a wedding gown. We sleep perchance we dream, and invective
invades, (re)coiling: an afterthought, whispered.
Techno Prisons
In the techno prisons, ravers tweet
ecstasy, and the disco balls made of computer screens twirl the many faces of
John Travolta. "Scientology Fever" becomes the number one hit on AM
770.
In the techno prisons, the High
Definition Priests of the Droids sit in their iPods worshipping their
Tablets.
In the techno prisons, Edison smashes
a light bulb and calls it progress. Ravers call it egregious regress and pull
the plug on his ghost. His ghost lives off the grid and calls it excess.
In the techno prisons, Facebook
checks her Gmail 20 times a day, and Apple texts nude selfies to Google.
Instagram gets jealous and creates mean memes about perverted fruits that go
viral and infect everyone with parabola.
In the technicolor prisons, our souls lose their hues, and
we all go extinct like the black and white TVs of our futuristic past.
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