Wasn’t it a matter of self esteem
that he spent so much time
sweeping at the internet,
washing away slurs, all those advertisements,
the pop-ups the drop-downs: those discombobulatives of reality?
And yes, he did sincerely feel it:
a clean screen is the precise and necessary prerequisite to the normalization of activity,
the sine-qua-non, be it only momentary, of one’s respite from these scrawls of information.
It would be like a waterfall, cold and clear, but with the tantalizing tang of white wine, a solution
where discrepancies and ambiguities are scrubbed,
where in the very instant
those icons make their appearance, complicating one’s sense of choice
with double clicks, and user names, and passwords
that seem to change with each and every boot,
there is like a breath of air, a blue-sky-screen
where no thing has as yet been activated
and the all is an absolute, inchoate potential.
He is like that man who swept
the Interpreters Parlor, doing that which is required of him,
utilizing whatever energy source is available:
providing a special kind of absolution,
and with only that distant angel observing.
.
