I’ve found myself at times

worshiping at the light

of this screen, and could not

recall afterwards how long

I’d been, or how much I’d given.


Only I felt relieved

to be done, picking up

my head or pushing back

from my seat, thinking

“Okay, now that’s out of the way.”


Where had I gone afield?

Lulled by what fair sirens

singing in reds and greens

and blues an argument

that required my attention


but not my awareness?

It was like the anti

particle of being

in flow, the negative

energy of negation itself.


Who demands such worship?

What master or machine

wants everything of me

but my soul? And I left it

unattended, a parentless child.

R. Charboneau



Artwork: Book of the Dead of Hunefer, circa 1275 BC

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