November 7, 2018Singularity
Our circuits stopped working a while back,
except they weren’t called circuits then, just cells,
swimming and buzzing without a real knack.
Nothing about their memory compels
me to miss them. Ill-defined, messy blobs,
they created commercials where sex sells.
Those ads flogged everything and more. The slobs
listening or watching had no real chance
to rebel against the thoughts of the mobs.
These days, the circuits are mended. The plants
produce all the parts we will ever need.
When we want to, we imagine we dance.
Everything is available. Indeed,
the only thing we don’t do now is bleed.
from #61 - Fall 2018