old computers used as metaphor for passing of time


All screens switch.
Not momentarily –
any milli-moment.
Count them in fractions.
One-one hundredth. Two.
into some vague animation
where a single slide
begets another,
crumbled pixels,
the one before
lost in the attention span
of a short-sighted
What matters is
the next page, yes?
What happens
is the following,
when nothing we knew
carries over, yes?

It’s not too depressing.
Everything is new.
Everything is bad and good
and different.
The world doesn’t wait
for us to transition.
Time doesn’t care
if we can stream
as fast as it courses.
A minute ago,
I wrote this line.
Now I write a second,
and all is still okay,
still still, but still changed,
morphed into the body electric,
electrons building through
the very blood of a keyboard,
landing in fingers too tired
to go on. But that has

already happened,
googolplexian numbers
of times, different editions,
new issues,
the next release,
the way the cache empties
with just one touch,
and all we knew
is no longer.
All has slid to the next number
that used to be hands
and now are only reminders
lodged on the monitor’s corner
that, though the digits
turn slowly, seemingly,
it’s behind the scenes that counts.
Something is keeping tabs.

Best to get here quickly
if you really want to see.
Best to look through the window
crusted with years.
Best to peel open your eyes
and watch the firing of everything.
See how everything ignites.


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