My Life In A Laptop
Prose Poem
My life is in a laptop — friends have been swallowed up — into a void of some kind — probably by lack of attention. I have been forever changed by this thing — I call it ‘thing’ because it has no name — this dissonance — this disturbance of connection we’ve been swimming in. Or is it just me?
Perhaps not swimming — that would imply fluidity — water joins distinctions; dissolving in togetherness. No it’s not that, not that at all. More like sifting — yeah sifting — being dispersed — sep.ar.a.ted — like a fine powder through a sieve — only not to end up in the same place just lighter — but instead blown to opposite seas — hmm there’s that water theme again...
It’s feeling cold — too unfamiliar — I can no longer dive in — not that I ever dove… I hate being upside down — too much blood rushing to the head all of a sudden — the brain charging first — when so many integral parts could go asunder!— or just the thought of my legs up there — what the hell would they be doing up there? All, weightless… Nope, I’m a runner — least I was. Feet belong on the ground — to run.
But that lightness… I would run so fast — sure to lift into flight — feet just barely connecting to rubber before lifting off— not at all like that sloppy befuddled landing of a plane — No, not like that — it was pure grace like dancing perhaps, but on speed. Stride in full measure — you’d think I was tall…Ahhh the illusion cast by lanky limbs that can stretch…
Though now, it’s more like, trouble sitting still — an agitation of some kind — the walking — the pacing. Never seems to stop, and yet I’m off to nowhere...
I am still skinny — a little too skinny (for my likes)— keeping this kind of pace burns calories — more than I’d like. Not sure what’s got me so restless — like I’m colliding with particles I cannot see — that keep me spinning — tripping out of stride — but bouncing off the next one —keep me going on like this — never bumping into anyone… but me.
Breathe & Be Still ©2022
Well I think it’s finally happened. My brain has been corrupted — or is it infiltrated? — by the free association of the prose poem. A big thank you (I think) to J.D. Harms and Melissa Coffey for crafting this provocative space called Scrittura where words collide in ways that sometimes make sense (or not).
