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I’ve been made sick by technology.
Those key boards & keypads,
The roving mouse,
The touch pad, and ultimately,
That telepathic chip
Implanted while I slept—
Who-da thunk those fingers doing the walking
Would become tendrils of the Watching Class?
Surveillance inroads to your cerebral cortex,
Ultimately taking command.
“Pilot on the bridge,” the Bosun screams,
Whenever we needed reminding
That even our Captain,
“Oh Captain, My Captain,”
I would console my crew:
“Even the Boss has a boss.”
Interesting liability issues could be raised here.
How can a human being
Be held culpable for crimes,
Any crime or thought crime,
When their mind, body & soul
Has been wired to the mainframe,
Stored in some remote Deseret,
Like that secret NSA facility,
They are building
Out in the middle of nowhere,
***-**** Utah?
So what if the people there
Are descendants of the
Original Apostles of Joseph Smith,
With a deep genetic recognition
That there was a time
When no one wanted
These Latter Day gypsies
Putting down roots.
Anywhere.
It was simply out of the question.
“Practice polygamy, really?”
That’s like wearing a sign round your neck,
A neon ankle bracelet round your crotch,
An in-your-face bright warning & caveat:
Men with wives or daughters--
**** wives and young daughters, or
Young ****, daughters--
Or old wives in any condition
& Mothers.
Are considered fair game for *******.
No thank you!
There’s the highway, Mr. Smith and
Take Brigham with you.
Cause nobody’s gonna sell you land,
Land around here.
Let alone there,
Or anywhere.
No one will sell you squat
This side, 500 miles from water.
Good water.
Farm-good water.
Wet navigable water.
By the 1830s,
The free soil
East of Ole Miss
Had pretty much dried up.
Those wacky bigamists
Pushed west again to Illinois—
The Prairie State, after all--
Raw land; still.
Raw people too,
Fearful, intolerant rubes,
Barely familiar with their own Book;
Scarcely needing another.
Our wacky gypsy Saints,
Treated like Christ deniers,
Treated like Jews, for Christ sake!
Joseph & Hiram--
The Smith Brothers
(Note to self:
Check on Mormon cough drop connection)
Slaughtered at Nauvoo.
Their Mormon brethren dispossessed of land again,
Try Missouri next--
Missouri, the show-me the door state--
These so-called Latter Day Saints
Get expelled by gubernatorial proclamation.
Saints pushed ever westward.
Until finding themselves in a place that
Even the ******* Indians didn’t want.
They dug their wells around the Great Salt Lake,
An American Negev chosen by prophecy,
They hunkered down in their desert Tel Beersheba.

But I digress.
We were talking about
That secret NSA complex
Being built in Utah,
Being built right now, July 2013.
When complete
The Watching Class will surely tune
Their screen resolutions
To those of us evincing
An unusually keen interest in
Issues like privacy.
Those among us, for example,
Using noms de internet,
Maintaining multiple email accounts,
Changing passwords
Randomly yet frequently,
Clearing browsing histories hourly,
Deploying anti-viral applications—
People: perhaps, with something to hide.
Those of us driven to paranoia
By the shape of things to come,
Those of us afraid of exposure,
Yet, incapable of staying off-screen,
Impelled by conspiracy fever,
Betraying ourselves on
Blogs and websites,
Leaving digital breadcrumbs behind.
 Jun 2015 Danya
Passius Ashe
It won't be long till
water costs more than oil
©  Passius Ashe  2015
 Jun 2015 Danya
Sara Teasdale
I hid the love within my heart,
And lit the laughter in my eyes,
That when we meet he may not know
My love that never dies.

But sometimes when he dreams at night
Of fragrant forests green and dim,
It may be that my love crept out
And brought the dream to him.

And sometimes when his heart is sick
And suddenly grows well again,
It may be that my love was there
To free his life of pain.
 Jun 2015 Danya
Olga Valerevna
And suddenly I do not feel the need to speak again
To take you to my room tonight and try to play pretend
The only conversation that remains is silence now
So let it be in stillness that our bodies take a bow
I've wandered through this skin so long and finally returned
To some place I'd forgotten but completely reaffirmed
I'd like to settle in and watch the windows open wide
To listen to the wind as it renters my whole mind
It's something like a song a weathered spirit taught me young
I'll sing it with my spirit and the notes will carry on
open
 Jun 2015 Danya
Liis Belle
Let’s stop
Time for a moment
Why always rush?
Reality is a torment
Listen to the hush
Of complete silence
If you listen closely
There is always a difference
In the way something sounds
The way the air feels
There is so much that
The outside world conceals

Why must we be
Always keen to go
To the next place, why don’t we
Ever take things slow?
Why don’t we
Take time off the frets
Savour the little moments
We’d otherwise forget?  

And have you
Just skimmed through these words?
No time to read aloud
You don’t want to be heard
Isn’t it just
A part of your mind?
A system forbidding you
To slow or rewind

You’ll always skip through
Let the words blur your sight
And you would continue
To read it all quickly
No matter
How detached
Are these
Words
That
I
Write.
 Jun 2015 Danya
Graff1980
Untitled
 Jun 2015 Danya
Graff1980
I want her to read me
Like I was the never ending story
See the glory of my being
As I see hers
Touch the curve of my spine
Though leather it might be
And see inside
To the beauty of my creativity
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