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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blog of poet, leah umansky 