Smart Phone

Clouds distort in the sky’s fish eye.
Washing oil sheen from my hands, they prism momentarily,
dull just as quickly in Orwellian florescents.
I think I’m becoming machine. Plugged in
at the nap of my neck, sleeping next
to a time bomb on my nightstand
plotting domination with Facebook pokes. How many likes does it take to get to the center a human being?

It’s your move, mother. In my hand lies power
even over you – I have your dew point, temperament,
pressure point from any given place in the world.

I dismember a banana, feeling its skin pop
under disconnected hands, staring
like a sociopath whose just committed an irreversible crime.

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