Bob Marcacci
Blog Sestina
In the throes and fog of reoccurring blog,
accept the slow return to yourself. Visit
your openly lonely and somewhat plain face
to the world in cyberspace. Your mother
never dreamed you could be so cold,
lashing yourself to a desk each nightchurning words in a tireless glaze. Night
marks a charge in the current, the blog
is your living fear of wandering in the cold
circuits of sentiment. And now, your visit
to the pornography and click-sure mother
of surfers and pop-up para-whilers. Facethe next day with a sore neck. Look at your face
in the mirror. You worked and spent the night
looking at sexy cartoons and hyperlinks, mother
country of perverted insomniacs and sleepless blog
blatherers. How many webpages did you visit
as the fog was settling on your mind in the coldmorning? Scuffle to the kitchen and pour a cold
cup of coffee. Where are you? Turn and face
the refrigerator’s rattle. What do you have to visit
as the hours stretch and you wonder if this night
will be different. Will you make another blog
entry or write a letter to your old mother,shuffling in slippers, in her kitchen? Your mother,
who thinks of you in these hours when it’s cold
and the weather is changing. Write your blog
and pretend your mother can see your face
while you type another story into the night.
Is there anything left for you to visitnow that you’ve finished plucking keys? Visit
an e-zine, download something, steal the mother
code of a junior high school SNERT. This night
is for adventure in your swivel-chair. The cold
mouse beckons your itchy trigger-click, face
a page not found. Where is your blog?Is it really the night? You were going to visit
your friend’s blog and you forgot your mother.
Is it really this cold? Is it really your face?
