TRUTH: 
STRANGER THAN DOT-COM

When truth comes  
Everything you kiss may turn to rage  
It will be a case of bad-luck fever  
Mistaken names and strained words  
Digital errors compounded digitally.

One generation fears the clock  
Another ignores it, takes up with strangers.  
We love the mystery life,  
Its secret funding for colleagues and cadavers.

Guard your databases,  
Because you insist on having  
What you have never had,  
A welcome mat, a password,  
Places to be a part of to browse and learn  
To fill in personal blanks with who’s at what.

Truth whispers like promises  
Unlocks like-tumblers in private spaces.

It is all cyber willingness  
A super being in your alcove  
Bathing in your electrons,  
A server of another love.  
Its cloud-soft hands frisk you  
Searching for your digits.

Names mean nothing, 
handle and legacy are all.  
Descriptive anagrams spell you out,  
Decrypt your imagery.

Strangers are welcome  
As they carve out a new wilderness  
With foundations of text  
Hyper layers of logs and linked desires

But the dangers ARE hidden  
awaiting the beast of your energy,  
atomic tooth and nail  
ready to lash out and place  
poisoned tongued remarks  
at the next stranger’s door  
that dares to close in your face.

 

You Read While I Listen Weird
      from Read Calm, Listen Weird volume 11

         (my form:   Tri-heptode Pi Grammatik)

Reading all your tragedies  
Disasters of your life, I  
Don’t hear the shivery voice  
That tries to relive some night,  
Never sense the awful or  
The frightful, dreadful being  
Seized by doom and diseases.

Solitude is not destroyed  
By threats, prognostication,  
Deadly words behind your back.  
Plaintive poems of passage,  
Those brave survivalist tomes,  
Dull ashes from the past, are  
Shadowy alien lives.

Listen to that inner calm  
From your sanctum undefiled,  
The unveiled soul of you is  
Thankful not to be on trial,  
Was not in danger at all,  
You who will live forever  
To tell your immortal tale.

 

Form: Septets arranged in 3 stanzas  
Each line having seven syllables  
Including title, 22 lines in all resulting  
In a mystical union 22 / 7 or pie.

©Jimmy Warner, 2000                                                back