if i could text
the exact subtext
of what might be
coming next
instant message
a smiling alien preparing a visit
ready to surf my couch
and leave an imprint
of groovy slime;
if i could text
and still want to drive,
even consider the joy
of being alive;
my third cell phone in a month
calls me up,
takes my profile picture on autopilot,
wanting me to face my book
and cramp my space,
as the train rolls through ratshit tunnels
under this metropolis
of middling murk.
and here i am,
wishing an exposed commuter's thigh
rubbing me in my subway seat
when matched with mine
could become two sticks
working hard to make fire.
i know why all these gadgets
make us worse;
i know the perils of tricknology,
that much driven hearse.
i know what the last goddess wants.
for a smiling alien to make a visit,
to laugh at these churning seas
of hard plastic waste,
and just finish us off,
one by one,
girl plus boy,
with much
tremendous
haste.
