Is getting out of hand
Our internal monologues
Soon to be interpreted
As self-published podcasts.
Too often they even make it out
To others’ ears:
Oil spills of opinions
We are pretending to talk on a phone
So our dogs can look at us all confused
And in doing so forget the reality
That we have a phobia of phone calls;
Of old lines of communication,
Although we do like the look
Of that twirly landline cord
Wrapped around a tattooed, bejeweled finger.
The video posted, we check for likes
All the while ignoring the language
Of forehead presses and eye contact and fetches
That our dogs actually wanted
At the concert I slip
From watching an empty stage
To filming the band step on
To filming myself mouth along,
And end up with two files
(one in my pocket, one in the cloud,)
An eternal ethereal record
Of every song I don’t remember seeing or hearing
Along with the rest of the crowd
I harvest my body parts
And each of my thoughts
Then offer up this rich sacrifice
At the cartoon altar of red hearts and yellow applause
Behind each one a soul, sure –
But are soul and thumb so intimately intertwined?
Or is that dumb digit, those empty eyes,
Maybe where our souls have gone to hide?
…Is that where they are going to die?
I don’t know, but I’m getting tired,
Swallowed by the rising tide
Of all this shitty
content.