Rocket to the Real

I've taken to writing by hand again

instead of clack from key. The ink can run,

especially when chewed or broken in pocket.

Connection of paper and pen, the angle of hand

and wrist. It's easier on the eyes as well.

This writing needs to be a physical act.

Reclaim the real. Slough off the dream. Intend

with breath, with touch. Forego the fantasy and swell

amidst the bite or kiss. I cannot shun

the sting of cold or blood from folly. Withstand

virtual and eat of form. The ball and socket,

the piston and pump along spring and sprocket:

all mechanized inside, of piece or part.

Our bridges are broken; disconnect from land

and float on currents. Transmissions rend

without experience, mere empty consumption.

A hollow existence? Can we even tell

the real from the imagined? Farewell

to touch, to smell, to taste—stored in lockets

around our lives. No more sun

or winter frost. Perhaps I need to start

again. To become our own women and men

we must connect and raise our voices, demand

a tangible reality of sand

and soil. Buy the actions, sensations. Sell

the distances between. Now over then.

We cannot skip to what's next on the docket

and dismiss what is before our eyes: the cart

instead of the horse. Therein lives absolution,

resolve. The simulation becomes undone

in light of tactile acts. The width of bands

provides no match against the strings of hearts.

Can we break free from this illusion, this hell

of false hope? It's time to board the bus, a rocket

towards the real and finally transcend.

3/25/10