May 7 by The Running Son
the̊ ̄Matrix Uploaded
Holy Zion, Neo!
That was no lump in my throat.
I swear I totally felt my soul stutter.
It fluttered, it was unsettling!
Palpitations felt were metal-mouth-green and streaming,
arcing me down to my relations and posterity
all caught in the Matrix
and hovering over apocalyptic worlds
and quantum event stages,
and faltering nations,
and soul-sick patients choosing the red pill
of cultist underworld vocations, making oblations to sages.
All caught in limbo.
A deja-vu. A symbol
a download to the Matrix may be
all that saves you at this stage of translation.
All pills and dots
and universal translucence—
I feel a sudden sense of blue-pill blueness, and shiver
when I consider the two of us as food-units
feeding programs and lost souls, and giving mechanical fools false gold.
Or feeding earth. Golden-age industry,
or even stardust,
like moon-juice dripping through us; like a bad seal in the Matrix, bleeding.
But It wont harm us,
or the little dipper it fills, and spills out of–- made me a believer guys,
I went there and I’m telling you
Because this ain’t no silver-sipping morphine fever here,
morphing into a courtly jester
jesting feverishly, or shadow-boxing thin white air.
I’m newly teething,
plugged-in and baby clean
and neo-lithically pleading to both Dreamtown and Rock-city,
my two Matrix pocket-worlds disconnected
by a phone booth,
one of under-land seers,
the other, up-and-sprung doe-eyed deer,
both waiting to hear
about that third world, please.
by Jim Aldrich