Perhaps
you could have taken more than a few moments
to compose your “clever” message
and taken the time to reflect
that your desire for accolades
and endless applause for wit
had outpaced your good sense.
Can a digital foot fit in your mouth
or does it never cross the desert of the real?
it’s hard to see where my fingertips end
and the binary voice begins
when the border is sharp as a coastline
washed away with time
shifting to the seasons.
My tenor is rendered mute
neutered by the medium I treasure
the craft of a tweet is hidden
but when the 140 characters hit the spot
you recognize the artistry Hemingway never achieved.
brevity is a virtue that lives within a context so those few
words live next to a photo,
the quickest
way to deploy a basket of meaning
ready to unpack in 300 word essays.
Princess Langwidere struggles with her Facebook
never knowing what face
would best serve her whole audience.
the life of small gatherings became a bonfire that invited
everyone that knew you existed
and your uncle shares pictures of Obama stomping a burning Constitution
the price of authenticity was to be
misunderstood
by nearly everyone, preferably at once
if you can’t be yourself everywhere, are you yourself anywhere
but now we know too much
shrinking our circles to those who so closely echo
our sentiments.
costumes became ripe for crucifixion
tiled between listicles of things only you would understand
because being you could not be more commercial
nor more intimate to your sense of being.
circle jerk
confidence is reaffirmed by steadfastness
the new seal of authenticity
because evolving was for the fish who was too scared
to be himself
I can’t divorce my past thank goodness
I harbor no political ambitions
though I’m sure some obnoxious
surgically extracting comment will bleed in the theater
where residents dutifully churn out SEO content
excoriating my very existence
as the audience burns my effigy,
only to find there were bones underneath.
There’s no digital wall that can ward off
this archangel of death
waiting for a door without lamb’s blood
to sacrifice to the vengeful God of fiber optic connections.
the pitchforks come even when you shop for socks
suddenly finding your money exposed
to winds that blow unfavorably
suddenly anonymity became liability
when it had stamped authenticity with a physical address
goading it to step out into the sun
from the sheltered basement of some bored soul.
but justice could be anonymous and fair
the truth doesn’t need an address
or a series of numbers
connecting it to another agenda
oh, hive mind
you want everything for nothing
and it couldn’t be easier, yet
all you demand is porn and the status quo
the very ashes of our IRL existence
Agent Smith was right - Zion had horrible clothes
and wouldn’t get likes on Instagram.
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