Post
Somehow,
I found myself lost in a familiar landscape
that suddenly appeared alien and heavenly—
white
in the absence
of however death felt—
and I was hunting for time in hypertext.
Unaware was I
of the scope of my distraction,
following the skimmed passages
of half-fact with half a half-life,
decaying in the brief tapping
of each second's slovenly click.
I was tapered
to the staccato immersion,
collecting the rifled, jutted,
haphazardly dispensed pornography
of Information—
flooding
forth,
disjointed, overlapping bursts
bustling over each other,
skittering
the shrapnel of thought.
All separated.
All eroded—
the paradigms
which once felt stead,
linear—
as if narrative
could calm and concentrate
the chaos of the world,
controlling what is out of control—
that which can control.
I find my eyes tipping,
rebounding up,
my pupils dilating, utter
FOCUS
perturbing the plastic warps
and elastic renegotiations
of what was once
THE
MIND.
I find my eyes skipping
over paraphrases of
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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