Everything is holy.

Cell phones rivet eyes
like plasma of a spirit come
to haunt, exhort, advise, extort or taunt:

but they are holy too.
The heart’s affections
know no bounds.

Its predilections run
from what you crave and fear
to querulous hot pink

exorbitances gleaming without
warning on a screen –
abounding with abandon

like a child’s
sudden mind.
You will not find

a devil here.
Unless you find a devil here.
Everything is holy.

Consciousness is queer.
Let the pap of apps
elapse, collapse

into their fractals.
Miraculous!
Virtual is actual.


 
 
 
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