The Era of the Vortex

February 8, 2014


And so when the lights have dimmed

and no one is left to recharge the battery

how shall the tomb of this era be marked?


Not in blood but in Photoshop font

         dug on the altar of the keyboard,

  with carpal tunnel and hunched backs,

          we are

                                 {refreshed and reloaded}

                                  explosion expressed in

                                  red green and blue angels


                                                      and dispersed

                into the hard drive of the hive mind

                into the cage of enlightenment.



          The Great Age of the Whole One

             the unification of all nations

              The Era of Communication            and

                              -decoration of noise about

                                  our cell wall apartments-

                          our only

                                freedom found in the breeze

                                that ends at our front door

                      {there is no more}

                      here is everything


The world is at your fingertips

                   you   need      only           swipe

         so come now,

                          all of us together,

             unseen.  We are

connected, all alone, humanity’s

congregation seated behind screens

                      bombarded and soothed

                          by images, a myriad

of images installed in a minute

into the iris of our aspirations.


Our most holy form found

on television stations protruding

                slim waists and thick hips

                         -lips bled red by

                           the saturation wheel-


the poor man’s resolution

to bury, barter and beg

for another soul’s constitution.


                The Epoch of Who’s Not


                   Styrofoam Cushioned

                    Mental Enslavement


                New Sexy Sleek Portable

                     Portals, Disposable


                       The Crying Moon


                                               for attention, we the

                   Generation of Limp Fire

                        Grown Sedentary

                (some assembly required)


For it takes effort to live and it takes

nothing to give life to pixelated purity

and saran wrapped dream miracles

torn open

                    –most delectable joy found

  in doomsday newspaper shreddings

                          under a dying xmas tree-

too heavy to move we lay back choking

on soothsayer media spokesman, hoping

to open some exchange of goods for


          –to hold

                   on to or

                           hang from-

but not all of us.

We can be our own coroner.

We will bury our own graves,

mark the monument with our own voice.

Why wait for dust to decide our name?

We mold into the position of our surrender,

          must it be eyes fixed at glowing flatness?

As long as we still breathe, the air is in us,

          but life doesn’t give back

                                                –it takes-

                 so exhale all your soul and

                                 see what lies inside you.

Don’t waste potential in a vacuum of

cyclone waiting, harbinger of success

                                  -future sex,

                                   future love in whimpers-

          bursting inside and tearing

          searching, yearning, begging

          for an outlet of your effort.

If not, implode inside out

              Absorbing Vortex of Lost Years

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