The Same Barber Chair

 

Not to have crossed

room means chamber

XII means cranial nerve, hypoglossal

VI abducens, and I say this from memory

my own photo reminds me of a Cloud Atlas

the random page from a journal

In the days we used phone books and oversized maps,

blew the dust off a giant atlas in a domed room scented with oak and leather

the same barber chair keeps showing up in my dreams

haze around the perimeter

sideburns on my black and white set

quarks and photons and scatter, cosmic rays or the glasses you pretended to buy in a Johnson Smith Catalogue.

M-mode and rabbit ears, things only a cardiologist would understand

or a boomer

I still listen for HAL in my dreams

the only computer I’ll ever feel sorry for

Who was Apollo?

 

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