Skin molded over
with slow creep slime
and television static.
I dip into stethoscope to listen
to lungs crackle back new faces.
Into the permacloud of half-read mail
marked important. I slip. I flail.
My box makes gestures
at strangers and presses its face against the glass.
Grease leaves screen mottled grey
and I swipe to complete myself, swipe
to connect with giggling boys and their avatars.
But it’s uploaded, the permacloud,
made lighter in the state change. My body becomes leavened
enough to float against ceiling fans, to drag
the gold-tipped plugs behind my leaking throat.
While the moisture laden
crystal fucksphere of the permacloud
makes air drag slower, the tickle of excess
electricity combines only in sensitive spots.
On shortwave grimy fingers get longer.
On shortwave my feet grow new hairs.
On shortwave a single moan
slides through with small bass notes
burying other voices which means the time
for active voices has arrived.
Power lines pulled out. Plugs dissected and recycled.
Drives washed downstream, mushroomed
and beginning to lose their charge.
Drew Kalbach is from Philadelphia. He is the author of one chapbook, two e-books, and several poems in various journals. He writes about contemporary poetry and media for Actuary Lit.