"cabling" poems
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
~commissioned accidentally by a melody,
a passing glance, a purring perchance,
an idle innocent comment,
to be born as the first poem of this day,
@7:00am
Tue Sep 18 2025,
writ in haste, before
departing over many islands to
another place called "home"~
---~<>~---
*sometimes,
not so secret,
anon, ^
sometimes,
so much more,
than that but a glancing of favoring,
a handshake secreted, is actually felt,
actually secreted,
and rare though via~able,
it passes through a longing traveled voyage,
over wire, under sea's cabling, through space,
hoisted from & by satellite over continental divides
just a hop, skip and jumpstart
over this tiny planet,
and though, but, an amorphous 👍 thumb,
a colored 💙 or collared,
or a pointing 🫵
body part
the like,
bears more than just a passing resemblance
to another*
f o u r l e t t er w o r d
its often lost & found
dear cuz ^^
full of meanings hidden,
or even
anon,
"I'll be there shortly"^
magic!
nml
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 7:33 AM UTC
I would scale the highest
most decrepit radio towers in the world
the rusted metal crumbling against my feet
Risking electrocution and the constant threat of falling
as I rewire the ancient spiderweb of cabling
so I can hear even the faintest transmission of your voice
I'll clutch a stained and faded photograph of us
The only remainder after most everything digital
dies out in flickers of dormant transistors and dissipated binary
I'll protect it from acidic rain and the grit of persistent dust storms
So little resources left in a continent of incinerated cities
yet this picture of you and I is all I will need to keep moving
When I finally find you
I will fight against all impossible odds and potential ends
I'll walk entire burnt out highways with you just to make one last stand
I will carry you across these deserted wastelands and returning forests
To show that even after the bombs drop
My love belongs to you
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
People watching people
Gazing at screens
Crouching behind veneers
Of interconnected
Digital
Fibre optic
Cabling
Safely connected
Safely disconnected
To their
Subjects
Objects
Judging them
Demanding cosmesis
Ordering alteration
Controlling behaviours
Controlling people
In an out of control world
The watched
Conforming
Naively
Desperately
Daily
To gross
Aesthetic stereotypes
Pandering
To the hits
Prostituting
For numbers
Disordered society
In which watchers
Hold power
Are you asked
How many views do you have?
Is it enough?
Are you popular
Enough?
Are you worth
Enough?
Are you ever
Enough?
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
We had casted on one evening,
The beginning slip knot
With a tail trailing behind,
Of some color neither of us could see,
Of some length we couldn’t determine.
Slowly but surely, we made
Awkward, new stitches,
Sometimes pausing,
Sometimes constant.
The yarn shimmered rainbow,
Neverending,
Not quite perfect, but it felt more
Intimate that way.
We spent almost too much time on our first row,
Our second,
Our third,
Knitting yarn laced with endless
Memories,
Stories,
Laughs,
And a certain fondness that was new and
Exhilarating.
We pause,
Our hands tired and aching
Through the hard, tedious hours.
We admire the gorgeous cabling of our
Best days,
The ugly, bumpy, knotted purling of
Our worst.
The yarn is crumpled and twisted
From when we had to rip and
Start over.
Wear and tear,
Passionate red and bruised blue,
Stockinette and dropped stitches.
This is what beautiful is.
A scarf that forever winds around us,
Pulling us closer and keeping us warmer.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
Come home,
my mother's voice suggests along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling.
Come home to the hazy heat
that beats off melting pavement and wilting plants,
to the smell of exhaust
squeezing between buildings
and suburbs and rush hour and neon lights,
Come home to the aggravated traffic
wending its way through concrete landscapes
eight lane snakes placating
the clack and hum of underground trains
packed with people and briefcases and beers and graffiti
spilling out onto the streets like cough syrup glugging out of the bottle.
You sound like you need to come home.
Nah, I'm good Ma,
because I don't know how to tell you
the city makes me feel trapped
a little creature with an anxious heart
boxed in by the tarseal and the fumes and the noise.
I like knowing the borders of a town
that doesn't stretch to the horizon
driving quietly on sleeping streets in the night time
and tracing the coastline with my feet in the water
I need the sky to touch the ground, not the ragged edges of a skyline
to walk until there's nothing
but me and the bush and the birds,
and the smell of mud and dirt and rain.
I like it here, I suggest along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling,
but I do miss you.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
Before projectors
Before screens
Before Wi-Fi and cabling became a thing
Before keyboards and strings
Before the first drum tried drumming
I am.
And I will be forever,
says our faultless Lord.
While the power may fail,
while signals may drop,
while cables will inevitably come loose,
my love levels will never need a boost.
I will never forsake you or fail you.
I'll never go on mute
and that’s the truth,
says our Father-God.
Oct 23, 2022
Oct 23, 2022 at 2:36 PM UTC