Friday, April 14, 2017



Beauty rewrites its own code. The authentic
is another souvenir most people throw away.
I have lived over seventeen thousand days
waiting for this latest round of beta-tests
to be over. I want the gold edition. Here
let me hug you. Maybe push the hair out
of your face. Let’s hold hands even only
for an instant. There is no better model
of human connection. I desperately want
the real, but there is a subscription charge
if you want to message. The evening rain
has stopped. There is another possibility
I am lying to you. Swipe right anyways.
Every time you breath out words, they
die at the moment of their hearing. Says
who? We need a back-up plan. I remember
something, and a little Xerox copy of me
appears mowing a lawn, meets up with friends,
takes back a neighbourhood street from
a rival group of kids. Some people believe
we are living in a computer simulation.
No wonder it feels like I am going nowhere
half the time. Are we only digital puppets?
Evolution and my own heart-burn says no.
If yes, the turkey vultures circling the edges
of the suburbs are a nice effect. Already
I feel less lonely and isolated knowing
we are part of the same program. Let’s
share secrets, fall in love, blow big shining
bubbles in the artificial sunshine before
some God sitting at a desk propped up
by a couple of milk cartons, a wizened face
searching a screen, hits alt-shift-delete.


By Chris Banks

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