Tiny wires in my head
connect me to the internet
every message and every status checked
so much boring information packed
high-school mate grow a beard
another teenage pregnancy
another model leaving scene
life is so ordinary it seems
meaning slowly disappears
and some words you can't take back
I feel like I should disconnect

It's silly how
A little red number one
A yellow lightning bolt
Brings a rush of dopamine
So minor
Yet so addictive
That the aspiration
For validation
Might as well be so strong
That the cord of your mouse
Is shooting ******* through your arm
And moments are spent
Mind-numbingly
Refreshing the page
Just to see if a stranger
Not much different than yourself
Bothered to click a **** button

Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance

yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses

and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.

Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.

and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers

wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high

or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting *******
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.

Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.

Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.

The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.

So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.

We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.

while others dream
she lies
curled in her shell
a snail of underwear and eyelashes
with each blink
the blue glow shimmers on her eyes
reflecting a calm sea
that used to know fire

but where is the tempest?
where did the
grasping groping clutching
fingers lose their way through her hair
they were supposed to arrive by now
while the figures wait
shrouded and distant
at the bus stop

is it possible to light a match that has already burnt out?

The older generation still argues
That on the internet real connection
Is nothing but an illusion

They argue that conversations on the web
Have no value or substance
That they're fickle and pointless

But who are they to question
That which makes so many of their children
Happier and less lonely?

To them the internet means less connection
But if we can
As the younger generation
Feel more comfortable in sharing emotions
Are we not seeking less solitude
Than our parents and grandparents?

Is there a better or less costly form
Of therapeutic assistance
Than to share with those we connect with best
Out of millions of people to choose from?

If we can know everything
About a person's day
That they are willing to tell
Is it not important
Crucial to friendship
To know what goes on in another person's life?

Communication is only as valuable
As the speakers and listeners deem it
If it makes us feel better
More connected
Less alone
Then despite what others may think
It has value

Does the older generation
Truly see
Absolutely no value
In their children's
And grandchildren's
Happiness?

No matter how fickle they perceive it
It has value
To me

The pixilated light I hold in my hands

I prefer over the rays of the star we orbit.

 

When the sun falls down, to spread its golden shine to a different plane,

Mine glows brighter still, ethereal, clean and white.

I cover my head, my soul, as I **** out my insecurities, like a dog marking its territory, all over the virtual forest of broken lives.

 

Screaming out coyly for attention to rescue my mind from the insolence I perceive my reality to be, behind ironic wording and new age grammar, I wear like plastic garments, leeching toxins into my infected blood stream

 

Sweat stained dream

Ripped seam

Digital gleam

Internet fiend

 

“Why is the world so mean?”

There are people
Who deny the validity
Of friends made through
An intangible reality

There are people
Who say what we do
Doesn't matter here
That the internet isn't true

What these people miss
And what we can see
Is that there are people
Behind the monitor screen

To them, a computer
Is machinery and numbers
Just a high tech tool
Their feelings couldn't be number

To them, what they see
Ends with the screen
Or maybe with software
Or hardware that can be seen

But to us, however
We look at that screen
And we know that
There's more to be seen

Behind each window
For those of us who know
Are people to talk to
And friendships yet to grow

To us, a screen
Is not a dead machine
But three billion people
Yet to be seen

We know each code, site
Video, blog, or post
Is the work of a person
And not some electronic ghost

We don't care
Where you are in the world
Our bonds are as valid
As those pen pals of old

So while people may
Just brush us away
We know our world
Is as real as our words