Calliope

We sit down in front of this cold metal 

Box, empty of any vital sign, and 

With a moment’s pause, breath, we send crackling 

Current through circuits, relays, blank screen a 

Calliope of sounds and colors that 

Prove vital life.  The box shifts, alters shape 

And form, its position in time, stretches 

Back, forward, opens locked doors, removes them 

From their jambs, grants access to chambers, rooms, 

Hollows, crevices, fractures, chasms, the deep

Creases and folds within your skin.  There, in 

That box, channels, veins, intersections and 

Over-passes, a concrete surface, fields

Of grass, long roads, sky far from sight, a sound 

Feeding on itself, echoes rippling back, 

Careening off objects in their paths, those

Others who have not yet made the journey 

Back.  We stand silent waiting to hear them, 

Though we will probably never feel their 

Vibrations.  All we will ever have is 

This feeling of unaccounted-for-ness, 

A consolation that may, in time, come 

To take the place of those yet to return.  

So we go on in awe of the vastness, 

Wondering if having gotten in we 

Can find our way back out, since the field, sky, 

Road leads everywhere at once, allows the 

Proximity of all things, offers no 

Resistance, but that it decides is in 

Its favor, knowing when to fade softly

Or retain solid form, layers, circles 

That merge, spill, seep and discolor skin in 

A not entirely unpleasant manner.  

We kneel, offer prayers, consult any 

Deity who happens by, chat with what 

Might have been an oracle at one time, 

Rant with a prophet, if not leprous.  We 

Take advice and heed dire warnings from those

Appointed to such offices, often 

To no avail.  Given that there is no 

Alternative, no other option at 

Present available to us, we reach 

Over to the mouse, click on “Shut Down” and 

“It is now safe to switch off your machine.”