Los Desenchufados

We are the castaways of progress
We still own typewriters that we can't quite throw out yet
We miss the smudge of ink on our fingertips
Even though it ruined our best shirts
We like grinding a Number 2 pencil to a fine point
Even if the lead sometimes breaks in frustration
We like the smell of paper and the bitter taste of an envelope

We look straight ahead as we walk on a city street
We speak in sentences that are too long sometimes
If there is nothing to do
We look out the window at the trees
Or stoke the fire
One hundred years ago you couldn't call your mother
Unless you were rich
She probably lived in your house anyway
People came over to eat and sing songs in the parlor afterward
You had just bought a mandolin
And your fingers hurt from learning the notes

What will be lost, we ask?
People will still play the mandolin
You can download the chords and learn it in a day

We are not interested in mastering anything in a day
We are hardly capable of imagining
Mastering anything in a lifetime
We are attracted to the elegance of time
Graceful in its elongation, like a swan's neck

All knowledge will soon be ours, instantaneously
Except for the knowledge of not knowing
There will be no mysteries
But there will be speed and surety
Not a fair bargain, says the wind
Run, say the trees

My mother curses her new computer
Because it is so unfamiliar, like a house
Where all the furniture has been moved
And the light switches aren't where they should be
So what if it's faster
She returns to her garden for a smoke
She's eighty four, it's her prerogative

I can get the weather forecast on my phone
But I prefer the rain on my face
If I'd looked, I would have packed an umbrella
But I wouldn't have felt the rain, nor ruined my shoes
Mysteries come at a price
So does knowledge

Come, says the moon
Unplug, come outside, stare at me
I will be your friend
I will entertain you
I will introduce you to the rest of the night sky
The stars will teach you to listen to your own breathing
Cast away the glowing rectangle
Its knowledge is not power but a prison
Pixellated seduction
Cast it away and come listen to the earth
And the sound of your own unknowing