poems

Reviving The Art Of Correspondence

I light a flame beneath a scorched steel kettle and wait
until racing, overexcited atoms force a whistle of damp heat from the steamer
that I might gingerly turn the valve
and release just enough fury to
infuse my tryptophanic milk with alert, frothing warmth

coffee mug in hand, I shuffle across pine floorboards in shearling slippers
landing in front of my slumbering computer
nudging the tiny cylindrical button
that awakens this small gray box packed with silicon chips and mystery
and sets the room humming

settling into the old dining chair that faces my desk
I move a tiny arrow to Open New File
dipping virtual quill
I begin,
"Dearest Friend,"

whom I would call if it wasn't 6:00am at your house 3,000 miles away
and if I didn't have so much to tell you
about my days here, my life on another coast, in a different weather
I describe watching Shakespeare performed on the lawn
in Golden Gate Park on a day when
you must be wearing quilted down and thermal long johns
I relay the humiliation of Calla Lilies in February
I recall the journey and the airport, ice-weighted trees draping the Southern State Parkway in glistening, gothic processional

I seal this message in
the discordant screech of a ten second flash session
meticulously rendered phrases released, as if from some digital eyedropper,
into a massive, surging data river
smashed ruthlessly into tiny, minuscule, incoherent bits
routed through various streams and tributaries
(Stanford and Minnesota, perhaps the
University of Pennsylvania)
to converge again and halt, cloaked in cryptic UNIX commands

until, in a few moments or days, you stumble
into the playroom with a can of diet Pepsi
gliding past the ripped sofa, half-eaten piece of toast
seeking out the mouse from beneath a tangle of abandoned magazines
fold yourself into a chair
click on the mail unread icon
and are soon lost in stark black text that
slowly enlivens your glowing screen with
my presence, my melancholy voice

winter '95

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