Work the Socket
Port noise complaint is what all the geeks call it,
the surging steam of twitchy discharge, hell-bent for ground.
Manhandled in thick, unshielded cable, foil pulled back like skin,
exposing an arcing hot wire that erupts with white sparks
as it spools out, dancing like kundalini uncoiled, uncrimped.
When the hot spot goes wide, you're already half tapped,
snaking deep the stainless steel that tries to fatten the pipe.
The hour is struck for drilling full depth, for breaking a sweat
and devil may care if insertion force spikes. Broadband is rough.
Pry it open as wide for as long as the tool you've got might
so tomorrow can bruise you with memory so very sore.
The price of admission you'll find tagged on the payload,
right on the rim of the tantalized pit, like a scrawl on a shot glass,
a top shelf memento for your top of the morning, well edged,
the downloadable down low of your torrents down pouring.
About the Poem
This poem was started after an encounter with someone I met in downtown Seattle early in 2014. It sat unfinished for a couple of months before recently picking it up again and patiently reworking it to get something I like. It's got a little more shadow in the mood of it now.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished May 14, 2014.