Some Days From The Summer Of 2017 (for Adny)

I woke up at 3:48 to my telephone covertly downloading software updates to itself I was also in my own world overcome by doubts I felt myself at a fence at the farthest border of the the pen I used to play in The place where the garden stopped and the real mesh began I'm angry with my fingers and the way they and the software disagree And the way the words I try to emit are tangled and paused An intrusive rain is static at my window and seeing as it faces the back of the house, the rain is private and only mine I am not upset about the cracks in the screen I'm disappointed by myself

I'm at a party full of people I recognize I think you might be here A person with a phone And a picture on the banquette downstairs Playing an important role i feel i was a web player come alive better than my damp fingers nothing on screen She asks questions in an open forum and sometimes i reply I admit I'm imitating something about a poster torn from a magazine melding with the wood and drywall Of your parents home what did you hope for tonight why did you come here I swallow my swords and pad them out instead This is it This is living This is the party

I approached her not in the mood to cultivate already established relationships I wanted to say things, toss them against the imprecision of my own belonging I blended in with the couch without particularly wanting to That's why you noticed me

You and your boyfriend like to have sex in the park by the river in that wholesome gay way Your life seems abundant with love even as you speak of your losses I speak of mine and they steal the abundance of our conversation Staring at me from your perch across the circle Without particularly wanting to I let our connection begin

What I Like About Working On Computers In Mid-Twentieth Century England

The noisy chug and churn of the machines,
The methodology,
Moving between the machines,
It is its own dance.

The camaraderie.
We are women in our own dance.
The air is full with the machines.
Full with our bodies,
Our armpits and breasts,
Our steady chug and churn.

Outsiders don't know
They are not involved
in the conversation.
Machine and human.

When I leave,
The work subsides in my interior.
When we return, we once again subside.
Taken up in the punch and clack,
Roaring on.

The machines are kept on
To ensure that they remain stable.
In a sense, it is like part of me is always there.

I go home,
Maybe make myself a rationed dinner,
Maybe tap my fingers on a polished table.
Read the newspaper, drink tea, sleep.