the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘technology’

Blue and gray battle tunes

Blue and gray battle on line, on screen,
battles of bands, lines after lines sing-
a-long shuffling in anything but civil sighs,
fat lady’s tongue’s been pulled by Gitmo guys,
water / smorgas / boarding / ear popping/budding / flying today
alone in the night sky, all the Stars’ songs on display
cloud the view of divine ear-piecing silence.
yes, eat! the Apple, the pod, the seed, the Tree, since
Steve sounds like Eve to man in a hormonal haze,
yes, the Tree of Knowledge speaks lectures on history,
converses in college-ese, can be a cantata in box beige,
“chicken in every pot,” eternal cacophonous symphony.

There is no animal

There is no animal
except in the coal
powering this magnetic platter
only minerals in this production
seduction on plates of
power, porn, and politics:
creativity on a shoestring of abstract bits and
pieces spinning around, around
for there is no memory of before, random
access from any phone, wall, lap:
shuffling forward, backwards, waiting
as a vegetable, unmoving,
for the next quest for new

Will they love me if I comment?

I will love if she comments (so many)
times and sights un-seen,
climbing mountains and sipping beers Flickr before my eye
and ewe sit behind a webbed and woolen curtain
following, descending, my stumbling Bloc,
stares into a liquid crystal reflection,
for nuclear arms are easier to hug than bloggers.

The planes: the shortest distance between corn

Repetition is a common prayer dangerous to a driver
boxed in, under an open sky, a rectangular prison
as rain arches across the planes.

Did you know the shortest distance between corn
are straight lines though its poles’ and electrical power lines,
an overturned microchip, the ticks on a rail
road of boxes and cylinders city-bound
around square miles of deserted farmland.

Take off your shoes and stay a while

“Solid rubber backing keeps Matt always in place and built-up rubber borders keep dirt and moisture on the Matt surface.”

some run bare
foot calloused
since childhood–probably
need a shoe horn for the other to drop
by and rub their soles, clean, expose their toes, clean
some say foot massages are too intimate for friends,
but will lay
their boots under your bed,
WELCOME: “Tell me all!”
the parquet border woven like transistors is deceiving
edges fray, yarns will be written,
fly though the wind, the ear,
save their soles from–
“Where are you going? Come back. I miss talking to you.”

© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.