Face Me on Twitbook


I still listen to cassettes on my Walkman —

so wake me up when the next big thing develops . . .



Cuneiform: Textual Intercourse

u text me dis
i text u dat
she dissed my dis
i sent last Sat.

u lol’ed
on down the list
i sexted six
(my 7th missed)

u banned my width
i book your face
u twittered on
she save my space

u scrolled me down
he tweeted smiles
we USB’ed
recharging miles . . .

u giga-bit
encrypted files;
i saved as mine
and cached denials

in digital
we re-erased
then skyped our souls
and interfaced.


PROMPT #17: write a poem that features forgotten technology

(You can download it for free.)

Jonesing for InfoWars

If his martyrdom happens, he’ll rise from the dead
and then multiply YouTubes like fishes and bread.
Resurrected, revived, he’ll ignite civil war
till you wish you had known what the Lord had in store.
If you hate him you’re merely a traitor at heart.
Don’t belittle his gifting, his talent, his art.
If you cannot discern what is writ on your wall
then get out of the way. Let your empire fall.
Should you act cavalierly, he’ll Cromwell your town;
it can only blow up if you take the man down.
He’s our knight; come the day and the laurels are ready—
hold back; keep your wit and your armaments steady.
My words bestow honor where honor is due:
on the crown of each head of the InfoWars crew—
till his voice, with a vengeance, shall break on far shores;
the tsunami (and swami) of InfoWars.



March of the Smart Simian

I am re-posting previous work during March.
Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April.

You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right


Planet of the Smartphones

A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)

from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text, quite rapidly:

Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.

Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.

Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;

primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.

Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage.)

if your snout just might unseat me,
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.

Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana . . .