Records continued to spin,
the canvas industry remained powerful as ever,
and writers briefly looked up from their page,
grateful for a moment’s excuse
to explain why they weren’t writing.
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Here is the message “hello world”
from the newest computing language in my brain.
I stand in digital space with my machine gun
spraying nothingness with ones and zeros.
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Root minus one timesed by eight,
Over arccos minus one; integrate.
She was made from a bulk of white stone.
Her first crutch to lean on, an IOU.
Laid and lying on borrowed ground,
knotted and gnarled, the sweet fruit
on a vine ripens and drops,
Fickle humans with our love
Condemning nature from above
We sit beneath such beauteous trees
Yet they cannot begin to please
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Fickle, fragile, fumbling
I shuffle between my fingers
While you craft a masterpiece
Of paper tears and skin.
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