Published July 2015
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.
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.