Saturday, October 24, 2015



As I cull copies of old typed poems
& pair them with their electronic kin, 
a pile of paper orphans grows. Lost poems.
No equivalents. Only faded dot-matrix hard copies.
Seedy little islands of ink on paper,
the last stand of the printed word.
I've gone and disturbed those old poems.
They no longer dream of the past.
They've become a chattering wilderness, 
they invade my dreams, all jumbled up 
and juking about out of order.
Unreasonable harvest.

It all began last summer when I was laid up.
I couldn't open a file that had lain fallow,
it reverted into a gray Unix brick,
like a digital weedy cultivar gone rogue.
(Yes but think of all those trees I saved
by not printing them out. Now what?)
And other poems have lost vast tracts of text. 
Words just went missing. On walkabout.
Words no writer ever wants to hear.


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