Electric Detox

Watching your vicarious self
as pixels through a glass screen,
you forget the simple joy of
holding a clump of sand in your hand,
feeling it tickle through
the cracks in your fingers.

Bukowski really shakes your insides
when you’re sipping rye through a flask
staring at the barrel end of
seven thousand miles of
empty ocean
(as opposed to the tremor he is,
stewing on a dusty shelf
next to your computer).

And only when you head
west to the the Pacific wall
past the Starbuxes and Burger Kings
past the last wifi hotspot
past the last house in civilization
does time have any visceral meaning.
Only when you watch the tide attack the earth,
trade a million days for
a few inches of erosion
and never relent
does time mean anything.
Only when you leave your
big screen TV
where explosions and sex
are always minutes away
can you feel the full force of it.

Or the full force of anything
for that matter.

You have to feel it on your skin.

Step away from the screen
You can’t let yourself
fall in love with a voice, Jaoqiun,
like I did once.
You have to feel her on your skin

You have to write a poem
in the dying sunlight
and race it to the darkness.

And head home earlier than you wanted.

Resume
scratching at your dust-allergy hives
and order a pizza
that comes to you
already made
while the TV talks at you.

None of it
feels quite right anymore.

But it never really did
in the first place.

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