Chris CrittendenComputer Screenthe screen looks at me for a moment like a thief, then empty again save for a few black scars. the more it gets wounded the more i stray, lost in onyx bytes, blips that lounge in glare— they have no blood, no clamorous brawl of biochemistry and passion— none of my struggle to lay them on a sanitized field. they are blind to the hurt that planted them in white soil, hoping for a rose. Electrical Outletscared simple face mating with prongs, so much power in your fear, the leash in your grip, how it herds dutiful machines, yokes them to umbilicals; and behind your reign a continent of wires crackling atop dead trees— pines crucified so you can fuel a toaster, empower a switch, let kids watch Barney. there’s too many of you, too many mouths agape below cat-slit eyes. you look like a fiend that charged a triceratops, got stabbed by its horns; you look like a genius who uncorked a genie, realizing far too late its gifts weren’t free. |