poem: I loved thee well, analog robot fog.

I loved thee well;

I loved thee true--

forestalled ambitions at the knell,

so much else, to ignore, or to do.

If as my father, me you saw,

you would also love me well,

but remind me so much of my flaws.


If I had a megaphone,

a plastic yellow mouthpiece at my beckon;

all from the quaint ingenuity,

of a man dictating from the between the walls of his home:

of a man of pale fog-colored obscurity

speaking thoughts that were none but his own.

Or if I were Dave Ramsey, or Alex Jones.


If I spoke my truth--

would those words ring your ears;

would any of it seem comprehensible to you?

What if I were a brown-eyed ewe,

who without the wisdom of her years,

forsook her own eyes to have hers turn blue?


A homosexual who owned a logging company--

once, me: knees-up, him: with his cool hand in my mouth,

spoke of things I should do;

By experience many worlds in betwixt and between,

but nevertheless, his searching, longing spirit calling out, 

he had spoken, lost on me, his own truth.


Would my truth be but vapor as from some doleful spa steam?

Do I even believe what I say? What I think?

Or is it more temporal than temperamental?

Is it the moment soon gone and lost as a hard-forgotten dream?

The old analog robot gets warm, hums, vibrates and sings:

more extemporaneous, hoary and dissolving than the experiential.

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