I want an accordion...

The Digital Age
is not a rhizome
it is a stream
with deep grooves
and we are all DJs
curating
and remixing
past lives
and re-inhabiting them
to a point where
‹not when (since time is collapsed into a space)›
a specific narrative
read as Pareidolia
the face in the
stream of noise
and data
is our fleeting
sensation of a
life unlived before
but that
too might be
statistical fallacy

I step outside of that screen
and walk into my mother’s house

I walked into the house
and knew right away
that my mom
had already left
it was the smell of
Incense
from my grandfather’s
Shrine
that gave it away
and like the purring
engine
the residual warmth
of a car
it gave away the
recent presence
of my mother

Our bodies are
hour glasses
not in the shape
but in the way
it keeps time
the hair growing
at different rates
from the nails
the decay
and extensions
thereof
like the contact lenses
drying out
letting me know
that two weeks
have passed and
that I need to replace
them
time and space
collapses
like an accordion

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