Terese Svoboda

Crash-and-a-Half Crash-and-a-Half

Mourn the poem or porn locked inside or fried, the white scrambled pre-word, impulses so electric they’re post-, just the paths, the pulse. The embarrassment of backup forgotten, Alzheimer put on like a coat you paid a lot for, months owed to a machine. Here— take this, my life in numbered bundles. Don’t forget. Such blackness arrives always sudden and sad but peaceful, not even an accident this time. And you, half-brained, mea culpa the air where the data hadn’t risen to cloud height, so suitable for burial, disremembered, dismembered.

May 6, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Terese Svoboda