Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Folgier's in My Cup

I came with your face on my laptop
after plugging the operating system,
flagging data fields under partly-cloudy skies
of high atmospheric particle levels.

A pop-up ad interrupted everything.
I lit a cigarette and linked into a saturated fat.
Clicking on the Lotus position, I fixed my tie
and downloaded a new app-organizing app.

I once heard a sound at the shore of a lake.
A massive object cast a malignant shadow.
It was the Storm -- the new BlackBerry Storm
available only on the world's largest 3-G network

I signed the family contract. On bad nights,
red with unlimited text, I fled
from the high-resolution display, screaming,
in a loop: the best part of waking up is

a warm toilet seat, a distant memory
of you, doused in flour,
ironing my shirt with a rolling pin
or scanning the Times with an insidious grin.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

If they refuse, it may delay the air in the criminal trial of the case.

You will get nothing
beyond this and that.
And no one will fly
you to the moon. How
will you respond to this?
You will maintain that
the moon will fly to you.
And then when the moon
comes crashing into the
earth, drunk and angry,
you will believe that you
willed it by being so
charming. And when they
bring you to trial for just
such a crime, you will
deny it while the moon
looks on, dejected and
wondering what happened.
You jerk.