The phone sings into my life from
Its still place in the corner,
Fulfilling the role of messenger
Holding onto elation or devastation,
Chit chat or sales voice of persuasion.
A tracking device linking into our whereabouts,
Held on our person, in car or walking mode,
Connecting us with another soul.
At one time these sentences would wait,
Storing up conversation and expectancy,
Now, the turn off mode rarely used,
Its surface new alongside never ending
Chit chat from keys depressed at expert
Speed and dialogue, via shortcuts
To the english language,
Discouraging correct terminology, a dislike
To some, taught in the old school.
Shall we exercise our way back from here
I doubt we can...we never will

This never ending chit chat mode.

I love you so much
I would crack open your skull
Pluck out your brain
Read your thoughts

But apparently that’s not socially
Acceptable
So I suppose I’ll settle
For holding your hand instead

I haven't been alive for two years now
I just sit and watch.
I wouldn't even know how to be a person if I tried.
I'll just watch.
I will work and sleep and drink heavily
Internally conversing with people too wonderful to really meet
In my mind forever, they'll die with me, how nice.
In the meantime
I'll keep looking.

Though like the kings and queens was she
Born who in lordly bricks palatially dwell,
And like the presidents that rule by majority
Votes the Republic, and like the verily well-
Pruned governors and mayors of states and cities
That live by the plough of the citizenry,
And like those folks of noble duties
Who delicately deck and behave benighly;
Yet this live in inclement circumstances, a
Woman nuts and partly ****. The round-
About her abode hath been and there the sheila--
Come rain, come shine--is lugubriously found.

An author must understand the craft
of picking such
fruit.
The patience to resolve and then
pluck
the ending, ripe on the branch.

But any reader can taste the sweetness,
Satisfying, although it leaves such a
Singular   lingering   taste
An urge to bite
   and bite
                   and bite
until only the seeds are left,
embedded in the folds of you brain,
watered by your memory, to            grow.

Though we say that reading is our escape
All readers want reality in the end
An overripe “deus ex machina”
can never                     satisfy

the craving for
a good ending.

There are forces that pull us straight up to face a situation. We feel the seconds lock into place, the grating of cardboard fate against our flimsy edges, our almost mindless reaction to rise up and change the story’s end.
Are we destined to be acted upon, with all the paper parts fitted from the beginning by a Great Book Binder? Disaster with its tearing claws, fear that dissolves our intentions, selfishness with it’s cloying glue keeping us rooted betwixt the pages. Or do we surprise ourselves and those divine hands full of paper cuts when we come forth, backed with our own resolve, and raise each corresponding cut out above those terrors so…

Beautifully.