poems

i want

readers

and humans

all over the world

to understand my

insanity

and my

loneliness

here in the middle of the night

in early January

of the year

2018.

i am parked in front of a keyboard here

eating a bag of salty  potato chips

guzzling this bad

ice cold

ice tea

(its not romatnic like alcohol, i know

but i cannot afford any alcohol)

and wishing i was

in Spain

like always

at a

bull ring.

i am sometimes afraid

that poetry and

stories have lost

their meaning in this world

as she is today.

the Internet has taken over

everything

and silence,

even though we are all

more alone

than ever before,

is somehow also

impossible

to find.

I want silence again, sometimes.

i want an empty room again, sometimes.

Just a typewriter again, sometimes.

No internet connection, no satellite TV,

No fucking 300 channels,

no music videos

no nothing sometimes.

yes i will confess i am a

sentimental loser

like all the rest and

i yearn for that loneliness of what

1945 must have felt like.

sitting in some cramped room

with just a shitty telephone

and a radio with the Dodgers game on it

eating potato chips

drinking iced tea

but in a different way back then.

in a much different

way

back then.

Stories are   weird now

its like all our heads

got holes in them

and they plugged the machines in.

poetry   just don’t seem  to have

as much use

sometimes

in the age of the

Internet.

people dont write poems now,kid…

people write

code now.

people stare into dark screens

writing HTML and c++

Typing commands

strange

indescribable commands

in languages

that are .. not..spoken….

people are speaking in codes now

not in languages.

maybe another 500 years from now,

languages won’t even exist like we

know them today.

everything will just be

an abbreviation.

Some chump kid will pull this poem

out at a library

(assuming this poem will

survive anywhere)

and he will

not know what he is seeing

as he

reads it..

“da fuck is this old code?” he will think,

and throw the book

over his shoulder

into the trash….

I sometimes shake with Fear really

as i imagine it.

i want the past like

all the rest of you fucking saps.

i want the comfort of the past

of the 50s

the 60s

the 70s

the 80s

the 90s.

i know every fucking thing that happened

in those decades,

because the Computer

told me.

Alas here i am

listening to the rain

a cold January night

early january

scratching my ear

and a pimple on my ass

listening to this

little

fucking

laptop

hum

trying to get a new version

of Linux

installed

trying to log on

to some

VR game

writing a poem

as i wait….

    EE Cummings wrote poems for life.

 Do those of us in the 21st century

   just write them

 while

we

wait?

I guess thats what i wonder y’know?