April 2017

Your chair across the dining
table sat empty.
A reminder that our hearts, like
my appetite, was arbitrary.
These days of ours, given to fancy,
cast over and through the net, like
currency virtualized for the sake of economy.

Saying I missed you would be faux pas.
In the sense that we all have forgotten art.
The old gods have fallen.
Something, in living today, we knew.
Our inbox, relentlessly, keeps calling.
The likes, and dislikes, we eschew.
That, in living, we embolden.

Surely, my kind is dying if not dead.
My pen, in strokes like recursive computing,
is extant in metaphor only.
When we lament our missed meetings
as if our attempts at trying, an atavus
rising – gave meaning to entwining.
Booting the need from which we were bred.

4/21/17

Your chair across the dining table sat empty. A reminder that, our hearts, like my appetite was arbitrary. These days of ours, given to fancy, cast over and through the net, like currency virtualized for the sake of economy. Saying I missed you would be faux pas. In the sense that we all have forgotten art. The old gods have fallen. Something, in living today, we knew. Our inbox, relentlessly, keeps calling. The likes, and dislikes, we eschew. That, in living, we embolden. Surely, my kind is dying if not dead. My pen, in strokes like recursive computing, is extant in metaphor only. When we lament our missed meetings as if our attempts at trying, an atavus rising – gave meaning to entwining. Booting the need from which we were bred. – sur le SE avec mon stylo parker

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sleep learning…. – on the SE

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