A Day in the Virtual Life of an American Writer

First thing in the morning,
I check my facebook, e-mail
and a couple literary sites
if I've written something that "speaks to me" :
occasionally, I wake every hour
with a cry: "what's the news?"
"what's the news?"

Then I have a mocha with a slug:
it's shipped all the way from Africa,
Hawaii, or Venezeula

It's needed to rouse me
to take a shower with hot water
provided by my invisible robotic slaves,
and change the shirt made in Thailand
for the one made in the land
of Yogis and Ganesha:
elephant God of schools, learning, and poetry,
I know that because of his popularity
at the local "hippie" sulfur springs
I can't afford

Then I pour over my books,
opiating or just supressing my contempt
for all the intellectual flacculence
which fills most books,
which are produced in a zoo
by monkeys throwing theories at each other
and then eating steak or pork
(it's called New York)

Occasionally I find something real and beautiful
which is why I do it,
but nine times out of ten
it's something gray,
maybe a little clever,
so I take another pill
and pull my magic lever...
and pretend it's eloquent and profound

More often, I find nothing
so I turn to digital sound:
and hear T.S. Eliot grokking out
the bright verse of his youth,
(snarling at any particular truth)
or one of a thousand songs
from a thousand bands I know,
balancing my need for rock'n roll
with my chronic head-aches

Then I e-mail a friend in Thailand,
India, or the Ukraine,
often some place they like poetry
and that helps keep me sane

So then perhaps I take a walk,
and eat something healthy
with multi and multiple vitamins,
and pen something about a curious bird
or an adventure of my past
(in Thailand or a sulfur resort
where they like India's Ganesha,)
Then I might have some wine
and pretend I'm an ancient Chinese poet
like Ling-Po or Gary Snyder

I shouldn't write so sardonically
it's not so bad:
it's almost deeply meaningful
I'm almost free and happy,

almost

very close

virtually