see http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=My+proofs

~~~~~~~~~~
Robert C Howard   Jul 23 2014

"I love this (the poem above). I was riveted to the page (screen) from the first line to the last. It reads like an existentialist credo. I couldn't help wondering if New York makes one an existentialist. Where else in the world can you live so alone in such a huge crowd"*
~~~~~~~~~~
For Robert
(Does NYC makes one an existentialist)

we live alone,
anywhere,
more and more,
not despite,
but because of the ease
that the total expanse
of the universe via
internet connectivity
today enables us to have an 
unrealized, unactualized,
but feels like an
NYC Billy Joel-undeniably-real
"nodding acquaintance"

this contradictory duality,
two parallel continuums of existence,
the flesh and the pixelated,
alone and together,
I have crossed over
in ways prior unimaginable

exist upon a single line
not just connecting
the real to the imagined
but conducting one to the other,
one existence, indistinguishable
border lines indistinct,
artifices superimposed by others

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive
model for the world today,
where I know not
my apartment neighbor's name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and the father,
as apt. #16D

an act of existentialism?

so many tears and poems
have I shed
for one who has
lost living treasures,
impossible for me
now to meet and witness them

nonetheless,
heard the testimony,
of disembodied voices,
read the pain
upon the pages so real,
that pixels from screen
rise up to stab my
overwhelmed tear ducts,
voiding the warranty of my tablet

only I can see
the realized proofs,
wet upon the screen/page
crossing over the
humanity divide
that invisible runs
wirelessly between us
and our "devices"

this, an act of existentialism?

Yes, the universe,
unfathomable.
I cannot confirm you exist,
even as I pinch my self..
just to be sure of me,
further I testify,
no machine wrote
this vain attempt
to spoof~proof me human

flee towards good faith,
deny never, my responsibility,
greater than this body
to act, more than exist,
never to remain silent,
the best reason to write
is to reason out loud
your choices

if I struggle to ascertain,
what are the correct choices,
never certain,
but always questioning,

this, an action of existentialism?

none of this satisfies,
is there a human voice
that belongs to you,
and one that belongs to me
above and beyond these
alpha symbols you read,
is there an existence,
sparking, elemental,
a proof-positive Nat,
could conduct himself to
where you are?

think now that someday,
after you have finished
conducting
beauty and art,
extricating sound from
metal and wood,
via the
Belleville Philharmonic Orchestra,
a man will join at its completion
the long line of well wishers,
but your hand,
he will not shake

instead, he just might

"place gentle a finger  
on your lips across, and upon his,
if electrons you sense and taste,
and yours they embrace,
as naturally as if
they were waiting
just for you,
you can almost be sure,
don't ask his name, unnecessary,
for he will face you
with these words:

Thank you, Thank you!
you are my proof.."*

I exist and you now know me by my the
taste of my lips,
just as real as the taste of
your poetry, your music,
upon mine