Blog Sestina

In the throes and fog of reoccurring blog, accept the slow return to yourself. Visit your openly lonely and somewhat plain face to the world in cyberspace. Your mother never dreamed you could be so cold, lashing yourself to a desk each night churning words in a tireless glaze. Night marks a charge in the current, the blog is your living fear of wandering in the cold circuits of sentiment. And now, your visit to the pornography and click-sure mother of surfers and pop-up para-whilers. Face the next day with a sore neck. Look at your face in the mirror. You worked and spent the night looking at sexy cartoons and hyperlinks, mother country of perverted insomniacs and sleepless blog blatherers. How many webpages did you visit as the fog was settling on your mind in the cold morning? Scuffle to the kitchen and pour a cold cup of coffee. Where are you? Turn and face the refrigerator’s rattle. What do you have to visit as the hours stretch and you wonder if this night will be different. Will you make another blog entry or write a letter to your old mother, shuffling in slippers, in her kitchen? Your mother, who thinks of you in these hours when it’s cold and the weather is changing. Write your blog and pretend your mother can see your face while you type another story into the night. Is there anything left for you to visit now that you’ve finished plucking keys? Visit an e-zine, download something, steal the mother code of a junior high school SNERT. This night is for adventure in your swivel-chair. The cold mouse beckons your itchy trigger-click, face a page not found. Where is your blog? Is it really the night? You were going to visit your friend’s blog and you forgot your mother. Is it really this cold? Is it really your face?

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