I was just perusing the old Cowachunga files, looking to dust off the novel and set it in Baja, which makes a lot more sense. There was a poem stuck in there randomly and... it was actually not half bad. So here, to tide over those who puzzle over blue moon phrasings:
The Hack
Life after good grace,
I just want a taste––
lips like honey, wanton,
non-age-restricted
how does this song go?
In the place beyond where
“Dear PC Officer”articles
reside, taste has no meaning,
writing is not delineated
by what peers consider
short enough
for the virally infected,
where no choice is to be had
beyond the stark reality of
the hack,
carving his way to survival,
immemorial, sleepless.
Jerky energy, between the lines
pure survival, this writing thing
the credit cards maxed,
the old ties slack,
burn the house to generate heat.
Baby needs to eat.