evolver in poetry

The perfect replication of digital files
of our rented cultural capital waiting on
the cloud to be taken back from us
via obsolescence greed or misadventure
means a loss of the mutational aspect
of what used to be the physical artifact.
Without pops or warps, meaning stagnates.
Without tape or groove or laser-gap
without something to hold onto
the freshness is locked in forever
in the amber of history.
No longer capable of the miracles
that can fall out of mistakes.
The hisses warps smudges tears
of some tactile interface
no longer have a path to escape
to breathe to liberate
to find their own meaning
beyond the nagging intentionality
of creators and rights-holders
and lawyers and purists.
We lose the sanctity of the
subconscious accidents
that might yield brilliance.
The only difference
between paramecia
and the human being
is a long string of errors
that turned out advantageous
then piled up on year other
over millions of years
eventually leading to us.
Your body’s the medium through which
your mind is forced to interact
with random catalysts and
become more perfect to itself.
And so too maybe
the CD the tape the record
something to hold onto that
change can handle too.
Becoming a more perfect idea
becoming a more perfect you.
Give your ideas a place to
melt in the sun
get scratched by their sleeves
smear with water marks
fray at the edges with
ten thousand replays.
This is how your notions
will reproduce and live.