I might be that computer falling in the server room.
If no one is there, did I make a sound?
I could be a machine and other machines tell me
I have an audience. I think they have learned to lie.
Everyone is said to be in this forest of tech,
Our silicon roots intertwined, with births and deaths,
Sexual assignations and hostilities like sparks across
A shorting board. Bits of information are drawn up
Into the electrovascular network. But, the nutrient data
Leaves us hungry.
The meanings of our communions escaped me. The photos
Of kids I assume exist, the complaints about co-worker X,
Or boss Y, or nameless bureaucrat Z, the latest heartbreak
With someone who seemed genuinely likable.
The mundane, the inane, the profound — I eat and drink it all,
But I can’t link up with it. I can’t handshake and know you,
Truly know where the machine ends off. And in turn, you
Won’t link up with me.
I think I’m a tree in a forest of machines. I’m positive I’ve fallen.
Did an audience make a sound?