GutsThe entrails of the machine are spilling in haphazard orderAcross the allotted space of my deskSilver, red and black coating hug the gold and semi-conductorsThe heart of the machine, my machine,is heatedly blinking to the wires of a careful and furious transfusionIt was surgically removed from the body that could no longer read itWe are performing a long overdue emergency operation-First the data that does not quite transferSave the heartthen save the body,Save the mind.
TurnsBreathe in, breathe out.The world keeps turning.You are telling me serious things, and I, you. The electronic seconds-arm of the screen keeps flashing. Facebook updates the feed: a new post sliding the rest down, gliding the text sound-lessly away the world keeps turning. You would think such a big old thing should creak and groan at the seams--but it does, and it has all along. We've just gotten used to it.One planet away, a tsunami is ravaging the island states and monsoons beat at fragile shanty-town roofs and all the while, meanwhile, at my dinner-room table, I am waiting for your words to appear.Quietly, silently, digitally, hum flicker blink.Breathe in, breathe out.What would I do without you, and you, I?"Don't die."
Dry SpellI have been suffering a dry spell. When the water doesn't come, the very air crackles with tension, static and dry. It's more than enough to make you irritable. Sparks fly at the lightest approach. The woven matter of my headcloth is weighty with dusty burden. Forty days and forty nights is far too much to ask from a mere mortal slouching along this desert terrain. When day breaks on the twenty-eighth and no oasis nigh, I sink heavily into the sand. I want nothing but to hide my devastated face from the sun and the sky and the world, but there is no relief from the pressure of heat pressing from every direction.When the drought breaks, there is no storm, no breaking of flood gates. Only a sputtering of mud.