Connections

I still remember receiving

the first message.

The brick phone

that Nokia built.

I’m certain that phone

still works today.

I’m certain that phone

will remain in working order

long after my bone dust

has returned to Antares.

And I remember thinking

upon message receipt

"Why didn’t you just call me, dude?"

I could see

from that first moment

how our social thread

would degrade.

Decades later

and my conversations

have largely reduced to signals

closer to Morse Code.

Doing_fine__stop

Cool__stop

Work_sucks__stop

Today_sucks__stop

True__stop

The_world_sucks__stop

Yeah__stop

How_are_you__stop

Maybe_one_day__stop

Love_you__stop

Standing in the Nike store,

adrift in Black Friday shoppers,

my sister says I’m not alone,

she’s watched conversations

with friends and family

whither, too.

Underneath her neutral

expression

stares a frustrated woman

wondering what will be left.

We blame children,

we blame marriage,

we blame the job,

but we never give much credit

to the convenience

of being left alone,

sinking into the subscribed comforts

of our privately mediated Idahos.

The great irony

of communication technology:

We will connect you to the world at the cost

of your connection…

Rich conversation

is now a luxury belonging

to stand-up comedians

selling ballsack razors,

conspiracy theorists hugging great aching jugs of vitamins.

Commentators, careerists,

and the collapsed individual

whose slow soul decay

we secretly celebrate.

They will speak for us.

They will have friends for us.

They will have families for us.

They will have lives for us.

What a service they offer,

free of charge.

Simply enter the promotion code at checkout.

And yet, from time to time

I meet someone

filthy stinking rich with words

diving head first

like Scrooge McDuck

into the grand Art Deco bank vault of their diction.

Swimming

in rhythmic breast stroke,

spraying forth speech

like a blue whale surfacing

from a journey in the depths.

And it moves me.

It moves me to speak once more.

It moves me to think once more.

It moves to feel once more.

There are connections

running in circuits

hidden to the IT specialists,

hidden to Verizon

or Time Warner.

They are the sort of connections passed along by sparrows

in the parking garage

or crickets at the roadside,

hopping around the litter.

Connections that will outlast

the next iPhone update.

Connections that will survive the collapse

of communication towers.

And like my old glory

Nokia phone,

will still boot up

long after we have gone,

ready to transmit

the heart’s voice

once more.