un­ti­tled 18

when I was young
the­days seemed
short as I was

I would take old ra­dios
how did they­work?
I stank of dust,
of­burnt wires.

some­one gave
me a bro­ken­cam­era.
I scraped off green
it worked again.
they took it back ?
I was that young

I am old.
twen­ty-two ? ob­so­lete

I?ve tak­en too many
things apart
to put­to­geth­er.
I smell of burnt wires.
of dust.

3 thoughts on “un­ti­tled 18

  1. i like the nar­ra­tive style. the words that are put to­geth­er is an in­ter­est­ing de­vice, if maybe a bit of a “one-lin­er.” it’s like all that elec­tric­i­ty and me­chan­i­cal stuff messed up your in­sides so now you’ve be­come the ma­chine. i’m a fan of the plain lan­guage.

  2. it’s an in­ter­est­ing idea to ex­plore, this ob­ses­sion with tak­ing things apart and then putting them to­geth­er. what a weird idea; right now there are thou­sands of peo­ple do­ing this. maybe there is some­thing more to write about in this area — like, things get tak­en apart and put to­geth­er and they may or may not work but large­ly this all goes by un­no­ticed. but as you al­lude to in your po­em, it can make a world of a dif­fer­ence to the per­son fool­ing around with the stuff.

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