"Staring down."

Walking along the street
entertained by the bright sights and sounds
of which city again?
Can't quite remember.


Cars and trucks whiz by. I'm blissfully unaware
of the hole in the ground
fifty feet away; but then I fall.
Phone still in hand,  but no longer bound


to my eyes.
What a surprise-
to the addicted texter
to be caught in a manhole-
the careless pedestrian's demise.

"No more chances."

Next time I see him-
fat chance he'll breathe again.
One too many times
he's crossed the line
with that goddamned grin
plastered on his face.
Whenever a comment I made, 
a snide remark, an insult perhaps
always from his skull-cave came.


Enough is enough! I've had it up to here.
My true motive now in the clear, 
his best bet is to move-stay away.
For the time we meet again--
that'll be his last day.

"BSOD"

I gaze through the window
and see a sea of blue.
What could this be?
Anything but the straight and true.
So this is the reason
why everyone loves the fruit:
when the Windows fail,
they refuse to reboot.

"The Bane of His Existence" or "The Volcano"

Its appearance is that of a blister-
a blemish on his perfect life.
Burning of the surrounding areas stir
him to the breaking point.


A sea of white erupts at once.
Disgust to the eye and unbearable pain
follow as he finally smashes it blunt


in an explosion of blood-it was necessary, he would claim. 
This ugly bane of his existence
turned black and red since.
Once more he endures the crime
of extracting the ruby fluid from his own head.
But it was about time


that he reclaimed his countenance
from this malignant antagonist.
The one most feared by the average teen--
the pimple, the zit-do you know what I mean?

"Buzzed"

two red eyes stare back at me from behind a mop of black.
the holes in those jeans seem too big to be decent.
yet there they are, on a body that i believe to be my own.
my lifeblood in its left hand, its fuel in its right-
merge the left with the right and the billowing smoke
--inhaled through its nose? perhaps.
a rainbow of shades accompanies me
through this horrible fantasy
i can fly-no just fall
that's not the endless sky
a towering wall
of flames--
just fine with me. as long as the left stays lit by right,
that which is real--is it there?
nowhere in sight.

"An Ode to Food."

You'll nourish me, but no matter anymore.
The pulp I've reduced you to represents your core.
No more suffering with entanglement in the teeth-
through me you've gone, never to see
the good you've done.
Reduced to one
piece.
Have your last fun
being flushed away--
your motion never to cease.

Machine in the corner.

Set up beside those huge machines,
the word processors of yore-
my fingers fly across the keys.
This "typing" is a bore.


Each day, early in the morn,
the bulking mass of metal
lurked forlorn
in the corner.
Passed by through the years of progress,
its worth nearly forgotten,
this Selectric called to me to suggest:
"Come see, how in past days it was done."


With a rattle and a bang resembling
the backfiring of a Model T,
This ancient behemoth, with paper rolled in,
ready to run-
to be frank,
the touch of each key
responded like a gun.


"Welcome to a world without backspace,
without the laziness of delete.
Here, mistakes and errors you do not erase
but thoughts you carefully complete."


My typing slowed for want of ease
but quality of my prose
substantially rose-addiction to instant correction appeased.


That fateful morning-a normal day in June,
a transformation-realization-what it really means
to slam the words onto paper, not merely a screen-
solid, tangible product from which the whole story-
past, present, future-can be gleaned.