A Query for Elliot

mr. robot 3.jpg

With thanks to Mr. Robot

 

Pictured you peeled back from sunset, that shadow’s step

ahead of rusted tabby receding hairline, pulled taut across

 

square-tusks of rooftops, shivering loose all the dandruff

ain’t fit to be gold. Compose a glow holed up from daytime,

 

drumming notes from the underground, rapping angles at

keyboards to bring a satellite down. Thought you would’ve

 

tapped the telegraph, crunched bitrates of Oxycodone,

compressed clouds into conversation, until tugged at, then

 

dispersed by slapping paw. Instead, tail wag at the terminal,

slip under Hubble without a scratch or a claw. After all,

 

favor that orange crush of windowpane from empty-set

of boxes, preferring Amazon over analog directions posted

 

by the front door. Coiled upon asking price, what do you

whisper in when tickling blank-space of search engines?

 

Ordering kitty treats to rid yourself of mouse breath after

a kill?

Future Primitive

Image

 

They promised us jet packs

instead all we got are these stupid phones.

Burn day light batteries by the soft glow

of our smug faces,

but if you need a burrito

I’m the unshowered oracle you have at home.

 

*Blip*

into a tv dream of fall cardigans, mock turtle,

gray stitch of evening wear perfect for a night on the town

as a nap on the couch. $200.00

if the commercial reminds you of a classier grandpa

 

instead of the drunk who became ancestor

refusing doctors a hack at his other foot.

 

And by god

where are the robots,

iron Neanderthals to do the laundry, crush dishes accidentally

with manacles for palms?

I fancied a future where families dressed

to the neon best

wrapped group hugs ‘round contraptions bawling sprockets:

adolescent circuitry at odds with robot law.

 

Instead, clothes still come in one fashion

per item, no shape shifting nanofibers tailored by our minds,

oh, but the success they’ve had

inducing automatons to cry.

 

Witness this by the odorless interface, conduit of cell phone towers

to touchscreens, celebrity retweets

ignite rafters of this open air mine.

 

Yowl and snivel,

sure, me too.

Grinds my gears by the eye sockets

like waking dreams totally recalled. Levi’s,

maybe Apple ads, unsolicited tender access touch my special place:

Memories of first kiss jpeg

renders a weep over adverts

pimping straight leg pairs of jeans.

…For Pop

Firewall

Image

 

Keep it

just over the berm, no,

further, beyond the punched out bicuspids of Kandahar.

If there’s enamel to be scraped

do it on the far side

of mud walls until smoke rises like a preteen in fits—

in short bursts of sporadic fire on the other end of a television

clambering to tell vapid tales

of concussive blasts—

an echo of a telegram, dead

by the time it reaches, acres clear of nodding infantry,

as if poolside by poppy plants.

 

It’s best to keep it

somewhere else.

 

Nope, not gonna’ get rope-a-doped

back into the material world of gunplay.

The hack-hacking

of another joking broken soldier unloading.

Sapped

in the same ditch he finds his counterpart:

strokes from the cleft of the ear across,

shrapnel upending clean butcher slices

returning his pallet of bones to the stars they rose in.

 

This is not what sells. They say

if it bleeds it leads, but they insist upon ketchup.

Not the amber glow either of us were looking for.

We keep it locked in safety deposit boxes patrolled by Swiss guards

plucking chocolates

from a golden tray.