We’re squeezed like toothpaste into wires,
an atmospheric phantom network
bouncing off the sea bed and the sky,
and if we don’t pay the bills:
discontinuities in reality.
They’re deep, best not to fall in.
I remember burning forests in the wind
when the air was thick as a roast chicken smoothie,
when nature, lightning and amino acids
made single cells in starter packs,
ever changing, revisable.
But now each heart is pizza sliced in four quaternions,
one alone, the other three—
an irresolvable triangle of love.
Ada was unimpressed.
Come now, Albert, no need for drama,
let’s stroll down to the beach
and watch the moonfall.
It fell and bounced and bounced again,
a game of lunar ping pong
that ended in the Mariana Trench.
I wonder, Ada—do you really care for me?
And if you do, how much?
In metric units, please.
She opened up the left
side of her chest,
revealed a dial,
a needle of affection
that quivered in the red.
But did that mean a rosy future?
Or was replacement imminent?
It might be best to call an Uber catamaran,
no doubt a wave of weather’s on the way.
Ada is a structured, statically typed,
and object-oriented high
level computer programming language.
I so wish I’d written that.
artwork—by the sea, possibly with Ada