This Time
1.
This is when the story becomes a poem.
Woolf, James, and Eliot sit round a small booth in Bloomsbury. Woolf rambles on about the sea and James smirks at the fact that he is the only American in the round. Eliot flips through the paper and together they girn and gowl, hardel and write as they begin round three of that golden stuff.
In walks Vanessa and Woolf jumps with joy. Things fly out of her pockets.
Now,
Imagine they’ve all got smartphones and oh how times have changed! James is on Wikipedia looking up British jargon; Freud is counting his followers on Twitter and ironically, has a rather large following of the opposite sex. There’s: @Robot_Mom and @JuliaChildMajesty – not to mention @Bakeablechildren. Woolf is taking hipstamatic photos on her iPhone that her sister will later use in a gallery on the Strand. The bartender rolls his eyes and picks up another round. Crisps are going round, as are swear-words, until Leonard walks in and all goes silent.
Words push their way into sense and with sense comes the hardeling.
2.
The hardeling is in the nerves. If I invent a constraint, then I charm you. My introduction must match my style. Whether our circles connect is or is not somewhat within the words. Our words. It’s also our electric registers. Even, the internal rhyme of this poem. It’s really about the want.
Imagine we are a predicate. Fill it with helping or being.
All I want is a drumble of your virtual time. Think of what was given way back when…
What’s a little button-pushing action?
Here a ‘like,’ there a ‘like,’ everywhere a ‘like-like.’
blog of poet, leah umansky 
Here’s a LIKE