The Edge

I love the swirl of purloined thoughts that
float in and out of my head
when I’m on the verge of sleep,
when plans for tomorrow meld into
abstract images of rollercoaster carriages
that hurtle along tracks in a honey sea of
green and purple and orange and alabaster filigree,
then emerge from the depths in a
fountain of four-winged pelicans
who sour over white-capped mountains
that forever change their shape

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Information Age Driftwood

The World Wide Web has me snared, funnelled, sucked me in
And all I can do is skim, ride this body board,
and rise on the nano-moment.
For I have shelved my brain, next to Britannica. Britannica.
Another grounded ship, sails folded
Wings bent but fairy dust is in this twilight.

I can’t remember, need not recall
It’s all on my hard-drive
That time when
That place so soft
I had a sensation of a pen in hand and a
Notebook that carved hieroglyph in me.

Old school, beta vid, Sunday non-committal church
I’m a relic of the paper age.

In sleep I float on algae calm waters
On a pod without an I
land on a shore without a fire.
I see a hill that halts my view and I am longing
For that memory stick of morning dew, a sunset pew
A concept of latte freshly brewed.

And I am bereft, where I left it all before.
On that shelf without a shore
My memory of you
(Britannica, Britannica).

There’s no laptop on this desolate isle.
The corner store is a cave full of orangatangs
And I am alone, alone, and in shock.
Aching and burning for that simple
Sense of self,
The whole me plumped with next door brady bunch comfort.

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