Suddenly, the 502s were back
those unexpected disconnects
that make posting whack
and my nerves a wreck

Like blank spots in time
that made me backtrack
unable to use rhymes
I felt trapped and  highjacked

Did the server choke on a bone?
Was 5G stalling me, wordless and postponed?
Did the firewall collapse, did DNS lapse?
Was it my laptop, was it my phone?

People watched me, on the metro,
as I frowned and moaned at my useless iPhone.
The issues seemed flagrant, I was becoming impatient
Was I some kind of nut? I was showing emotion.
We don’t DO that in Paris - have public implosions.

Did it happen to you?
Or was I one of a few.
What were the chances
that it only happened to poets in France?
.
.
Song for this:
Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O'Sullivan
La Vie en Rose by Allison Adams Tucker

73 drafts,
73 finished poems,
73 pieces I can't post,
73 plus instances of 502,
Bad Gateway.

Hey someone, in charge, I’m talking to you
across a vast ocean of errors numbered 502.

Please, put a quarter in the little slot that dispenses the feed,
so, the little gray squirrel gets what he needs,
to spin the little aluminum wheel that generates
the Susie-Bake oven light which facilitates
the solar cells powering the 1984 Tandy desktop,
that’s the Hello Poetry server - it’s ground to a stop.

We love that squirrel, and if we sound cloying,
it’s because we find the constant 502 errors annoying.

at the age of twenty-two i fell in love with the guy who can't pronounce my name, who only says i love you when he bites my lip (there are times that he forcibly opened my mouth and search for the dead poetries i buried 2 years ago).

at the age of twenty-four he asked me to undress myself while his eyes are stabbing my chest (i did and he stabbed me so deep that until now i can't get the blade off). he smashed my small body on the bed and abandoned after he found another poetry hiding in between my legs (i picked myself up after he left).

at the age of twenty-five he asked me to give every poetry blooming inside of me (but what can i offer if i'm alone with typos and errors?)

at the age of thirty i'm nothing but a cover page (no, i'm not a poetry book after the reader ripped off my pages).

Yeah

Back then ,

we were lost in love .

And now,

The love lost us .

I called captain Ahab
He told us to forget the whale
We told him to understand
If he was to drop the sails
Or we might as well belong in jail

The years turned to centuries
The jails were dead
As the Gods looked everywhere
They found me hidden under a chair
I said I was praying for death instead

Captain Ahab sat in the courthouse
The judge asked me why he didn't listen
I let out a laugh and said he does
They said you can't speak
You have to listen first

The streets were open
Captain Ahab sat next to me
The glass was filled too soon
The bartender said the car was here for free
He told me finish your drink, first then flee

The captain asked what was in it
It was empty
Isn't everyone full of themselves
He told me that everybody is empty
I told him because everyone acts the same, probably

I left breezin'