by Thomas Davis
I dance in the Age of Information.
Like a crowd of people
Information floods over me,
Voices speaking, feet walking,
Demands crescending into emptiness
That wires constrictions around
Blue veined, throbbing heart.
You’re not too deep, you’re not too deep.
The voices sing in cacophony of meaning/
Meaninglessness.
You’re not up to the Age that is.
I walk into a pool of quiet.
An old man, dark eyes pooling
With sunfire of stars,
Flaring with emptiness between stars,
His skin the color of Nebraska soils,
Stares at me,
Then smiles.
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