Hup hup!
It's cooler in a furnace
filled with flatulence.
I think I hate writing poetry like this:
tapping word by word
—lines—
on a touchscreen keyboard.
It reminds me overmuch
of Tokyo trains.
Squashed against sweating glass a
sample of foreign culture;
the walls of alien urban canyons
hurtle past.
Palm Pilot
(PDA)
in one hand,
stylus
in the other;
some then-modern scribe,
his digital clay tablet
inscribed feverish verse
on how an office lady's ass
made him feel.
Twenty years later on
the other side of the Pacific
such thoughts will cost him
an audience member.
Best to record them there and then
where they can live,
relics of a bygone era.
First draft: 230724
Published: 231218