This third-degree spotlight with which I’ve played
the staring game for so long has compelled me
to blink out my truths, my lies, even most of my secrets.
And the poetic latest…
I hate it here. In this place, in this spot,
wherever I’m situated, and you’re not.
Forgive the rhyme. It’s not what I do,
but I’m squirming like a four-year-old at a funeral
parked as I am in front of any glowing cyclops
—PCs, tablets, laptops (did it again)—
my eyes turning rectangular as round real feelings collide
in left and right dimension, never palpable forward and back.
I guess so much real world feels near unreachably
distant as that place behind the glaze through which we
legally expose ourselves each day. Is THIS line true,
or a virtuality of what I mean? I like to whisper it to you,
but the closeness it requires might only further fog
what passes for truth. Unless we touch. Ohhh, we’d like that.