Posts Tagged ‘technology’


We were the midwife to this digital world

memory led to data which eclipsed that of the noun

and verb. We looked to stored programs of sequence.


Read: coded; simulations; quantities, integers.

The speed of memory crudely carries data: our data.

It mingles arithmetic with reason and doubling.


Turning the Non into the Real rephrases power

into something brimming with curiosity. Any

maniac of this world could get it running,


could modestly ascertain that the modern world need

not be more modern. Bread and butter need not be

more than bread and butter. When power sleeps,


change is dreaming in the centrifuge. One curious integer

remembers a cable, a fuse, a fission or a fusion and together

they surf the very capable contents of our calculations.


We get the wide world up and running. We say we are lucky

to be in on it and that we love what the world gives us, but we might

be dressing a monster; impending a language, or programming havoc.


The fault is history’s.


© Umansky 2012


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You know language is complicated and felth. And, artificially speaking, intelligence can be learned; so who knows what you’re really like. Look at what’s happened to dating.


Look at the spuddled mess of our beloved messenger: Cupid.     [ uh huh, ok. Sure, you’re trying ]


Messages are so compact, but not mine. I teeter on. I keep it rambling, baby, yea!


No forswunking here. I mean what I say. I don’t need emoticons, though I like them.  I like showing you what I’m going to tell and why the hell not?   


So what if we’re all feeding into a societal porn or societal norm online– memory gets replayed now. We alter it. Create your own scenes. Miswire. Use words to mean different


words, but don’t darg the intent. The intent should be golden, purposeful and proud. The reference to them never appears because I don’t want it to. Here, I’ll try not to moffle: 


I speak from the heart.  Always will.  The screen-size doesn’t matter. Size doesn’t, too. I have restraint.  Now, I feel dirty in my rambles. In my brambles. and gambles. Oh well, my personage is crystal                                            clear.

© Umansky 2011


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Turning Over Phrases: key to joy


Listen and listen good, I clicked [add to spell-check] when I saw that your name turned red. I blushed and thought: How romantic! That’s the beauty of this felthed time. I can spuddle with what I deem romantic; with what I deem to be romance. Tug it, tweek it, tune it til it’s just-right. Each digital act is darged by a display of affection or gratitude;


attitude or charm. There is a bit of me, here, between bone and heart-bone. A bit moffled but still plush. It has been too long; too gone, since I’ve felt this kench. An interior kvetching, here, beneath the breast. I am looking at the digital for something heart-felt; something coded: HEART!  Something worth-worth [sharing]. Something worthy of an investment. But then again,


I am a salesman.  (My father’s daughter ). My words, a financial gesture between myself and my word-bank. I am selling you an aesthetic experience. I touch-type [x][x][x][x] and a word is now forswunk and forswinkled. I am so endearing; so enduring. Can’t you see I’m being genuine? This is potentially profitable. Don’t you want to cash-in? The heart is a loaded weapon.


            [Did I say weapon; I meant, investment.]


© Umansky 2011

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Every Thing Possible

To be believed is an image of truth & not-truth. Thinking outside the box. The function of  [space] rests on your fingers. How we categorize the thinking of functions is like immigrating across time.  Even cockeyed gibberish translates into some vernacular.  Into bits of alpha-male flanked on the screen.


                       It is sensational. It is artisanal.  It is extra sensory that

                       everything at once still ends up in someone’s mailbox:

                       electronic or not.


It would be an insult to the possible to succumb to it. If the box you lie in makes you ill; sod it.  A theory or grams uncritically ties the page to the mast; the mast to the page.  Pitch a sail and traverse the intellectual field: find a lover.


                         From the erotic to the neurotic; an alternative explanation is:

                         do –it yourself. 

                         Is:  annex what is potent and ride it out at your desk

                         [everyone’s doing it]


So, men will continue; with their dirtiness. He didn’t dislike you –  it’s the porn..  It’s the digital SHE that represents the real (if you’re delusional). The menaced-men investigate what is reached: they take their political past and  their psychosexual flair and auctioneer their best traits to the highest bidder:


A startling departure: the electronified woman. [ Surely Darwin didn’t see that] What baffled naiveté we own, to stand in the midst of such beauty and desensitize it.  To come through so perfected through a screen.  To do-it-myself with myself as if waiting for the phone to ring.  A call not made.  Disconnected. Disdained.  The lazy days. The lazy ways. The lazy phrase. So urgent is that– that immediate gratification; immediate satisfaction; immediate attraction that it Kings your life. Stirrings resonate in the mind.  The physical is unified.  The need to be held becomes  disembodied –as SHE is disembodied when you hit [power off]. Did she lie? 


Her treats are too sticky. Her sap is too tricky. Her figure is jerried-up just so to speak [or peak] before it sours.   These [little] questions are all harrowing; or all narrowing.


                          Go back to the mind, and feed it.  [REFRESH]


The soul: the original electric.



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How to Read


Forget what you already know. 

Get caught up in it.


Alphabetically not electronically


Be pastoral with language.

Feel the grain.


Phish, but remember where the bait is.


Count your chickens

before they go viral.


I could be bringing this to the masses in hard copy

[Forget the hardware.]



I prefer the printed word.


[Not pressed.]

No links required!



Use your noggin.

Not your smartphone.


Use your smarts.


Handle the page &

Cradle that word.



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Mother, this is slow-loading. Why don’t we just go plant our own pods? Plug into the wild of the wired. No need to add a voice to this whirring. This cloud of analog and dialogue and Once Upon a Dial-Up.

                        I’ll be the first to say it: a good domain name is hard to find.

(Especially if you’re jonsing for the perfect one)                              

                                                                                    The pickings are slim.

 A Cliff, Dick or Harry could get caught in the spam. I’ll keep keeping.  Keep needling the hay; needling the time between reloads, refreshes, rescans.    


[Auto-remind: Maybe Norton can help descript this techno-babble-baloney?]


What happened to clean? To pure? To loyal. We’re just caught in the filth and the cached; the

autofill and the default.                                 

                                                                        Predict what’s coming.

                                                            Does it need a little elbow-grease? Compressed air?


Translate the page into French. Change my background to Pretty-like.  Pretty is as pretty does. You big pretty-brained tinker toy.  You can’t even talk back. 

[How do you like them apples?]


© Umansky 2011


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