A poem to make today meaningful.
Though I did something
It was nothing worth sharing
So you've heard before, no one's caring.

I'll write a poem to make today meaningful.
I'll be constantly reminding
You that you never had a good grasp of timing.
And it wasn't jealousy that forced me to quit responding
It was the fact that you would only text
me that I found alarming
...and you wrote a poem to make the end meaningful

You really must be my favorite author
I've bought your work time and again
I've your words stuck in my head
And you said
"You're reading too much into this" and had nothing else to offer.

She said the Guatemalan women
had a trick for situations just like this.
A variation on a familiar tune of
slow and steady wins the race:
Just take small-calculated steps,
don’t exert too much force,
and when you finally reach the end
it’s like the journey was a godsend –

but I rise helium heavy, each step
an angular insult to my weight.
This modern pilgrimage of bottled water
and Doritos, clothes marred by tide and decay.
Otis, I pray that you’ll hold me once again
I’m not made of hearty peasant stock
My hills are made of concrete and
I order Seamless ‘round the clock.

It’s just made to look like one,
to follow your preconceived notions
of what a poem should be and do

This isn’t a poem and I’m not a poet,
I wish I could **** with a stanza
flashes of lexicon that burn right through

If this were truly a poem, and not pretend,
not even your marrow would survive
but these are just a few words I spewed

Waiting for the Mexican lady to finish
folding my shirts and boxers into neat piles
while I scroll past titles in my Netflix queue

Some extinct species  .  .  .
Man without tattoo, piercings,
  .  .  .  Never owned cell phone.

( Sonnet )*

You who have lived but once only—
Take time from dream to wake again,
See, with true eye, a ladder rungless
As it toys its way in sandbox heaven.

You who have tread with many worn
Suit, plied for journey into sorry night,
Dressed in drab and tear of souls torn
Between grave earth of morning light.

You who have scribed all letters black,
Never knowing blood burns to a page
Writ by chosen knack, ease of tar path,
All made bets to poor sage of tragedy,

Never showering in sparks of chance,
You who— have lived but once only.

Surrounded by strangers
Seeking empty pleasure’s
I feel the pressure to be clever

It seems that everyone nowadays
Is just another caricature
Painted with overwrought clichés
Originality is lost, yet no one cares

What are we to do when all we know is to break and to be broken?
When *** is our religion
Because it’s the only time that we don’t feel alone

Without humility  .  .  .
Mobile devices flay all—                                                                                    
Blue screen blank as soul.

I have seen couples,
So far from each—
Other, on a platform,
Waiting for the next train,
Never touching, yet how
They ****** their mobile
Devices, how softly, sweet,
Without guile nor agenda
They swipe the glass—
As it swoons back in return
With blue lights and alerts,
So dearly needed and answers,
In way words for the machines
Of flesh and the ghost within,
With such personal aplomb
In real notifications of text
And instant message.

Choose information
Choose friends
Befriend people you don’t know
Be befriended by people you don’t know
Like people you like
Like people you don’t
Watch stocks you don’t own
Look at photos you didn’t take
Of places you’ve never been
Read news that doesn’t concern you
And watch films you’ve already seen
Take pictures of the mundane
That you can never explain
Keep occupied by not doing
Keep occupied by viewing