Our fingers touch across the room.
Keyboard viscera. How strange

we are. Talking silently
in the same room. Staring into

a square. A talking drum. Pictographs.
The clacking nails on plastic.



Crystals are the big commodity.
Expensive rocks keeping alive

the New Age Shops, the health food stores,
all the street vendors. They proclaim

Crystals heal. Conduct energy.
Cleanse. Hold ancestors. Magic.

Crystals are the cheap chakra cleaning lady
sweeping out your body house with her

fire! FIRE! FIRE!

My memory is in a crystal. His memory is in a crystal.
Our computers whisper, penetrate each other. That physical

phenomenon. Shared memories. Shy fingers stutter.
Soul wounded mouths silenced far too often to risk

breaking the sound barrier with jet engine emotions.



Laughter. Evening solace.
Amber light and blue screen.
My fingers knit a story.
Crash! Gate's demon storms
like the Angel's first war,
there are stories which will never
survive this invasion. I scream.

And hips press against my shoulder blade.
I feel his thoughts on my bare skin. Lazy rain
or hurricane kissed. I lean towards him.

Coaxing. Damp. This algorithm alchemist
has gone to the place only mathemagicians

know as God. A prophet commands my computer,
But, I have forgotten the story. His lips.

--Svaha (Her Divine Serenity)

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