-

Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types

namely,

Air, Silicone and Mail ;

in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds

upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking

in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, (something too disturbing for me to detail here)

upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation


in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine

upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships

—

You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,

but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone__ !

nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—

either way, in case you
may not have noticed,

Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...




"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.

Pregnant Penelope placed
pealed pears in pairs in a
path which pickled preacher
Percy just previously pondered.

Pealing downstreet in a Plymouth,
he placed the gear down and
pushed the peddle purposefully
upon patent plush carpeting

PLOW!!

Poor pealed pears pushed
plumb with the pavement,
they promptly exploded..

Oh Please ! Pause !!!
Plllhhheewfff,
puke...

preposterous poetry should
be punished promptly with
proper penalty,

BUT

regretfully someone
will plagiarized such
pompous penning

Alas, THEY shall be known
for the **** they pass
in some preferred
publication,

which —personally— would
please the p*** out of me...

"intentionally poor ****"
© 2007-2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

a keeping of structure framed into the confines
of expectations for readers who are by far more
educated and better read than if i can just keep
to writing within those experience perimeters of
uhhh, someone else—

who claims to have seen that the world is about
roughly the size of a really really big asteroid,
hiding behind the thumb of an astronaut floating
some distance away from the pad i wrote my
last poem on a quarter-sheet of tissue paper

with a china marker.

As per the vocational experts of my youth;
i may well have qualified for the position of
"document shredder",
or even the author of small gift books—

—had ANY of this material fallen into
the wrong hands...

"freeverse"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

Their leader was very persuasive, repeatedly
promising them sanctuary from the
dangers they all faced in that
daily struggle to survive.

they were all seeking
the same thing,

A Light

that would show them
the way
                    to  Salvation..


at the onset of dusk
they headed out boldly,
numbering in the hundreds
—a single destiny.

the journey was long and treacherous
with many of them falling behind.
some succumbed to exhaustion, thus
becoming victims of nocturnal predators.

eventually the destination is reached,
a Holy Illumination just ahead,
that same light described
in the stories told to the
little ones each
night

some were so overcome with emotion,
they became careless and fell short.
the leader exclaimed with such exuberance
"God, to think that I would hesitate !!!"

the survivors —en mass—
ventured into
                              The Light...

—

Robert Caine was taking a nap on his
back patio after a bit too much to drink.

His sleep was suddenly disturbed by
a great many pops, cracks, and zaps
emanating from his bug lamp...



"the scope of salvation"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

               a suspension in the sky with refined silver cords
                 bearing tiny droplets full of crystal reflections
                     in a slow rotation which disintegrates the
                      periphery into gently unfolding louvers
                         that carefully define feathered edges.

                               i wish for it's pull chain over
                                    my own midnight sky—

i have but
small candles...




"cloud chandelier"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

they know who i am,

i first violated their ordinances
in the commission of a prank
phone call when i was eleven

simply a twenty-two second call
to a residence notifying them that
their refrigerator was running away

and i guess maybe it did—

because there was a strange non-analog
sound which indicated to me that the
authorities were monitoring.

my name is now certain to appear on
government stationary amongst a list
of other eleven year old offenders

inside a folder that sits in a drawer
of a file cabinet within row after row
of other file cabinets matrixed

underneath probably an eleven square
mile parcel somewhere outside
Langley, Virginia

(not to mention how many floors)

telephone patrolmen never forget a name,
and even if i turn eighty-eight they will
eventually issue warrants for my arrest

with patch cables on hand to tie me up
in order to extract confessions regarding
appliances for which no one has
any immediate concern—

ring tones will distract their focus as i wink
into the two way mirror, their failure to
hang me up until the eleventh hour
sandwiched firmly between my lips...

"the phone police"
©2012-2020 by Seranaea Jones
All rights reserved.

-

i submit~

they had been used to fill the balloon
in order to make it lofty, without any
regard for these molecules not desiring
a state of massed captivity,

with a clown smiling literally from
ear to ear with what he had done,
sentencing them to an uncertain fate
inside a rubberspheric prison.

floating erratically above the small child
he had given them to, they bounce up and
down repeatedly upon string as this small
jailer runs between tall ma'ams and misters

they long to be released,
but they do not desire
a wandering cell
at the mercy of
the winds—

!!! FANTASTIC CHANGE !!!

A man in dark vestiges
has wandered into this paradigm
with lit cigar in mouth, wearing a black moustache
upturned at the ends. He smiles in twisted lip pleasure

as he
POPS!!!

the key into the lock

FREE !!!

the yellow cocoon shrivels instantly away,
tiny helium souls quickly separate as they
dissipate completely into oblivion within
a welcoming clear blue sky

Free—

~so you may understand, a possible
justification exists for —conceivably—
any negative human activity...

im not forty-five just yet~

the picnic table to celebrate this
occasion was likely constructed
in the 1960's just as the illusion
of security began to unravel

it will have marks cut into it from
a paring knife some kid snuck out
of his mother's napsack to

scratch in a few here-and-there notches,
juvenile swirlies and crisscross patterns
expressing out with what little language
he could muster at the time

and —of course— some initials

two letters representing a presence
which will later metamorphosize this
simple gathering point into somebody's
threshold between the sky and the grave—

a horizon cruel, unyielding and
dead straight

i wonder how many have sat there, pondering
the timelines carved into this rest area where
forty-five years of inertia will be spent in a
long venting breath

the picnic basket will be packed light when my
day comes, observing in the company of old and
weathered timbers, feeling the etchmarks with
worn fingertips for a name i never was...


"forty-five"
© 2009 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved