The Computers

I feel the same with these computers
still around me.
Brooklyn, 2004.
Chicago, 2018.
They’re still here.
Not the same computers.
But their forms and
with similar feelings,
similar smells.
Electrons activated on air.
Petroleum exhaust from the street outside.
Somewhere in the labs,
wormholes ripped open
in our cosmic neighborhood.
But, the computers are still here
in their form and feelings.
I feel them, see them, know them, smell them.
They will be something different
at some point,
but for now they’re still here within
the concrete, steel, and glass buildings
of the city
and of the agencies,
where the computers train
and dream to be deoxyribonucleic acid.
I feel it.
I have seen it.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Krixba Star

Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know

the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told

revive the baptisms of the satellites

the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell

how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin