I imagined (for a week) only mail—
Incoming—would connect me to the world.
I’d shun the Press, TV, evade assails
Of blogosphere—its ceaseless, morbid, hurled
Laments and rage. Just mail, six days each week.
Here’s the world I found—two pounds of paper—
Thirty-five events (some welcome). Nine piqued
Interest (two checks, netflix disks, statements
From two banks). Four more informed: two art shows,
A friend’s new novel, fresh college courses.
Six demanded money—pained, writhing throes,
Politics, charity—HELP! Feel remorse!
The weighty bulk? Sixteen adverts—page
Upon page of glossy exclamations!
Buy! Buy! Now, dammit! Lust? Need? We’ll assuage
Both. Consume! No limit, no slim rations.
Goodyear tires, China Wok, Monthly Mailer
(Stuffed with coupons), those Yummy Groceries
(Delivered in thirty minutes!), tailored
Tours fitting ev’ry whim. The most eerie?
A thirty-two page catalog: Bearwear
From UCLA! Logoed stuff—ah me—
Football beads, hoodies, tailgate tents, game gear—
No trace of physics, math, or poetry.
(8/13/09)