The World Wide Web has me snared, funnelled, sucked me in

And all I can do is skim, ride this body board,

and rise on the nano-moment.

For I have shelved my brain, next to Britannica. Britannica.

Another grounded ship, sails folded

Wings bent but fairy dust is in this twilight.

I can’t remember, need not recall

It’s all on my hard-drive

That time when

That place so soft

I had a sensation of a pen in hand and a

Notebook that carved hieroglyph in me.

Old school, beta vid, Sunday non-committal church

I’m a relic of the paper age.

In sleep I float on algae calm waters

On a pod without an I

land on a shore without a fire.

I see a hill that halts my view and I am longing

For that memory stick of morning dew, a sunset pew

A concept of latte freshly brewed.

And I am bereft, where I left it all before.

On that shelf without a shore

My memory of you

(Britannica, Britannica).

There’s no laptop on this desolate isle.

The corner store is a cave full of orangatangs

And I am alone, alone, and in shock.

Aching and burning for that simple

Sense of self,

The whole me plumped with next door brady bunch comfort.

It’s too late,

I’m adrift on a wireless tide

Remote and flailing footloose webbing.

And it’s a fact that

When a vessel circles upon itself

There is no wake to ride.