It’s always been here
amoung us
every second
threads leapfrogging
through the front
the middle
the back of our minds,
dishing out spontaneous bits
of unrelated pixels
that we consider to be our very selves;
we say
smart phones are not a far leap
from Lascaux or Fairy Tales or Holy Books
or Captain Turner’s sky writing of 1922:
but in the dotage of our species
we sling dots and dashes
with centrifugal speed
into the Cloud’s Great Garbage Patch
of meaningless data
and along with Gutenberg, Bell, Jobs
we’re all just hitchhikers riding along
with earth
yelling out our fantastical success story
into the textural void

We already know the message coming back: