Strange now to google you, gone without iPads & iPods, while I walk the path tree on my brand new MacBook Air designed in California.
downtown Cupertino, clear autumn night, and I've been up for a day or so on the feed, talking, reading your Kaddish aloud, millions of texts and tweets bezerk in to a momentary infinity of texts and links and the Zuckerbergs await a corporate blues from a blind iPhonograph
the rhythm, the rhythm—and your memory is my machine—realizing how we—
And how Death is karma and how karma is vishna and vishna is a wheel to choose music from, to sing, remember, a prophesy, a leaf, a dawn, a spin—in a mind accelerating in iTime and iSpace to a heart beat, rhythmbits of buddhists and hackers, looking for an angry fix—
over and over again and again it turns it turns, the wheel, the script, the scripture—insanity!—slavery!—sick leave!—samsara!— they'd argue for days, they'd release the particulars of a being, as Woz was, to a palpated shred of settings!
—ups and downs and middles in their Colosseums, arenas of death which is entertainment—
now drivers nod towards lean unto a glassy map in meta structured nozzled chins, fingering unknown destinations of yellow smoke, in green automobiles, hot rod on the window panes—
touching a century and a century's touching its touch-screens, touching a century's touch-screens and a century's touching itself, Ai! ’ve touched a century's Self as you'd touched a touch-screen—A supermarket from Califronia, alas!
A gang of turnips and crows, craving an easy meal for a blue stomach, crying widget, widget, as an anaxyrus boreas halophilus would, a California toad—
maddened walking, maddened at madness, waking, Earth, Jehovas, no utopias were built in the west coast before, nearing a desert, a valley of death in yellow sand and rattle snakes and iRods, while the best minds of your generation destroyed by markets—
Take this, this Psalm, not a Kaddish, an iKaddsh, an iPoem, a nano-song, a very micro code in text and ginsbergrief packed in a sheet that does not exist anywhere but in my Mac—
for now—yet,
—contarary to common beliefs no flowers ain't purify no souls evah, no atmosphere can "suit" your "mind" any "better", all exists not but in a losing heart—
and death, the product, is biocommunication, a commie lover faggotry, a darkened syndicate—and everyone holds a share—now we're at Rockland, wobbling a muddy terrain—
signals of smoke a-word a-distance far, fading four oh-four oh-four oh-four. Still, I spell the Hebrew letters: Kuf Daled Yod Shin. There, rest. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shanti shanti shanti
which is Steve―
