Friday, April 19, 2013


Martin Gibbs

His iPhone, clutched in a sweaty palm, hums;
Send photos, posts, updates, texts, text, texts—
meaningless bytes spewed into the ether,
helped along by a rusting cell tower.

An iPod dangles from its bleached-white cord
stuffed in the back pocket of his faded Gap jeans;
next to the Blistex and pack of gum.
The petite box blares a useless top 40 hit.

Inside his designer backpack, the iPad churns,
Beeps, chirps, peeps, and tweets.
A Fortune 500 executive beats him at Fruit Ninja;
he sends more texts.

A chimpanzee in man’s clothes; devolution.
iPhone, iPad, iPod, iTV, iCantdealwithreality...
neck permanently hunched; bowed as if he were 100.
He sends more texts.

Text, text, text, text; brainwaves are zero.
Faster, faster—doesn’t wait for a reply...

The iBeam falls from the nearby tower;
death is swift, heavy, and loud.
... His only reply.

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