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Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Bink bonk went the Tron eating silicon bits
and the lovely trees Daphned about the orchard
formerly as young girls ungainly looped behind ―
   their quirks of charm fresh as a wave
      through the golden dry acres. 

Wit-free after long offgassing   
as the trees so near to the underworld
come a-moulting glass feathers as in molten-flowing,
   now cool, like cellophane, as ambience ―
     Tron! Glory ‘o the dry gold hills!

The programmer is lonely, isn’t it, Joe?
Well, see through it, Jack, said the VRP.
A dodecahedron of open faces
      where swim the universes,
      laving, then breaching, firewalls;

In the realm of the emanating strophe ―
in one realm, the place and it’s cargo poised
with most of all of it at the back, awake;
      and the food Tron must survive on
      bubbles like the sun in his throat. 

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