VOLUME 9 TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Simple Is

Feather wand
wafting vapors from the chalice,
your energy-of-God nature
makes your eyes glow as you watch her
lift the cover, press her on key,
her super metal oxide catastrophe
begins ah millennial,
hearing her freshly cleaned mouth,
the hidden chip taking over life itself,
as she eavesdrops anywhere,
takes you any place you want to go.

What was loved will be hated.

Dark though it is, the mind
is touched from within where God is born
and you nourish the mystery,
the words you imagine to be his,
or turn on a personal phrase
as you set out to find the world,
his shape and gear hand only an outline
words like engines testing the tar strip
moral skid marks on reality
slipping by virtue of our instress
and those who instress against us.

Borne by phosphor blue
through video lighted apartments
our mother padded on slippers
whispering from kitchen to pantry
pangs of grace and desert
across her angel appearance
and flower fall,
a mind as dark as earth itself,
like her gray picture tube display of faces
lines of dagger-looks and bullet-hole eyes.

Expect snow, she says.

The still-scape, endocrine yes
intuitive, heartskip sensual, let’s-do-it, yes
that straight and pregnant news given birth and life
within the limits of one’s own emptiness
may yet cure mad couch disease
and the unstirred hearts of shadow and crevasse

restart a long dead tongue
moving out among theories that fit one’s career
and veer past the shoebox
of seasonal peep shows, cards,
post marked souls and correspondences.

Homeopathic implant, nanogog cyber trust,
downlink and believe, in God we click.
Take up the struggle and the data object,
feel the fire catch you up
and end your long subjective lurking.

E-mail, lift my eyes
and cheer me up with her stolen joy
despite my separate laugh and disembodied howl,
vacuous chat and interchange of flat denial.

Keep me clear of conscience.
Moving farther from self,
I taste my desperate stink of identity.

The poet figure runs from doubt and echo
fears the rare-earth god endowed with leaps of instinct
knows when dance-nude notions fall from grace
and head trips face off, cornered by machine.

The exhibition starts in the next room
where the happy and the haggard become or burn,
achieve the current baud rate of chat and private encounter,
passion dispensed with upper and lower case wit,
direction, discretion, mightily shed for the speed of it.

She and I can all be saved by symbol
stimulated back to life by the robust beanery
of first time meetings, lack luster ramblings,
caught in mirror screens,
a moment suspended between
her video scene and all that super oxide expectation.

Welcome to your
diary of objects known to tender the cursor back
to banter and trade in a virtual love place
sausage casing, personal font basin,
casa del cyber bathing, venture and touch.

Nothing but abstract distance
to postpone the rub and posture of boredom,
flesh-bound and motionless.

Not one hint of cyber terror
warnings of cybernoia, deep data ID theft,
or end-of-year world wide cautions
against a waking praise, a simple is,
a day begun in total awe.

 

©Jimmy Warner Design, 2001