They promised us jet packs,
instead all we got are these stupid phones.
Burn day light batteries by the soft glow
of our smug faces,
but if you can’t find a burrito

 

I’m the unshowered oracle you have at home.

*Blip*
into a tv dream of fall cardigans, mock turtle,

gray stitch of evening wear just as comfy for a night on the town
as a nap on the couch.

200 bucks

if the commercial reminds you of a classier Grandpa

 

instead of a drunk who became ancestor,

refusing doctors a hack at his other foot.
 

And by god
where are the robots,
iron Neanderthals to do the laundry, crush dishes accidentally
with manacles for palms? 
 

I fancied a future where families dressed to the neon best,
groped group hugs ‘round contraptions bawling sprockets--
adolescent circuitry

at odds with robot law.

 

Oh, the success they’ve had
inducing automatons to cry.

Witness this by the odorless interface, conduit of cell phone towers
to touchscreens, celebrity retweets
ignite rafters of this open air mine.

Yowl and snivel, sure,

me too.
Grinds my gears by the eye sockets

like waking dreams totally recalled. Levi’s,
maybe Apple ads, unsolicited tender access touch my special place:

 

Memories of first kiss jpeg 
renders a weep over adverts 

pimping straight-leg pairs of jeans.