top of page

Apple and Lex

(David Strathairn speaking.)

Ike the Rich zoomed up the avenue
while Cull the Herd drove south.
The Ripper Index tolled twelve, down thirteen.
We were less a story than beads on a string,
that were about to skelter.

It was just too bad the best looking
and informed generation ever
might be the last of its kind.
How would our algorithms get on,
after we’re gone? Wind over numerals.

(Takes a long, seen-it-all drag and slowly blows smoke.)

Do something was the expression
on each face. The time for that
expired decades earlier.
The pleasure the more fortunate had
was tempered by winter rain.


bottom of page