Laid out everlastingly, a good servant and bad master,
they bind us whether we will or no with hundreds of cords, whither we go and at
murky sunrise the house lights turn on and the street lights off from here to
where the salt water begins and never ends.
Such delicate design of gantries and overheads and chains
and bolts and crossbars and rods descend to keep trains alive while overhead
the haywire of deciduous branches and stems of TV antennae glisten with the
remains of wires of rain.
In the cold ground a light year of cables relay unpoetic
data faster than we walk; the cold air wets the unending cables taking
information over our heads; wind and storms threaten, says the weekend
internet.
On freezing stops the prospective passengers take in
unstopping music through ipod plugs, wait for the overdue tram, or fingertip
polyhedron screens for the latest passive missive via invisible cables and
cloudy satellites.
The lies of politicians in the heat of studios in the
midst of elections on the pixels of screens at the windows of residences in the
square miles of avenues of cities of promises, hang by a thread, barely
connected.
There’s a high turnover rate because they treat their
staff like crap; can we talk, this situation is right out of hand; come over on
the weekend, just you and me; I’ve heard this all before and I tell you it
won’t work anymore: on and on on the phone all day and night.
Actors on stage breaking out of Lilliputian ropes, untying
the knots with words of wisdom, the trackwork to town they traverse, the
microcircuitry of world wide words; untying the tangle actors are bound to
through waking hours.
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