When poetry tries to capture
my futuristic simulation
reality
all of us
just sitting there
hooked up machine to machine
dolls recharging forever
until their whimsical creator runs
out of patience.
I laugh
at the idea
that poetry could ever be capable
of virtual reality
the flicker of a saccade
the self injection of senses when you feel
slightly.
No this poem would date back
to a ripe beginning
painted in suffering
to the dolls today.
Maybe it would sing
to the glassy eyes
only see never hear
that kind of experience
of the caves etched with characters
the farms
the knives, the bombs
the cities of smoke and glass
skyscrapers that reach beyond sight
but not beyond imagination,
the books that the world once read,
the cries that the world elicited, then comforted.
With every breath the dolls
clutch to a life
unknown.
Lucy Zhang 