THAT NIGHT
Two rich men took me out to dine.
Old red wine, a wide night view
Of Silicon Valley. But it's time to go.
Take the stairs, or the too-slow
elevator? "Wait" says our waiter:
"Try our fast new Mood Elevator."
It's a chain of spindle-pods like big
strung-up vertebrae beads or figs;
each can hammock just you alone
if you squinch. I try it. Disembone
on the ground floor, but my two
dates' capsules clench! They can
only rise and fall, unfree. I claw
at scaly skin. Caesarian? No flaw.
Dizzy, I blink. And now I see...
my friends stand by me, headlessly!
Brains alone are stuck in pods,
and their enwombéd heads are bulbs!
Ideas incandesce, but just two moods--
turned on, turned off. What a man pays
for radiance is Zen hollowtude
to guard that filamental blaze.
I pull with all my frail. The vertical train
clangs to halt. Snap a capsule's chain!
Gush at my knee, and my friend's light-
bulb head (bubble baby) bursts out,
bouncing once (abortive flare of hope)
then smashing as I feared. His shards fall
down the shaft. By me, his torso tall
sags, bereft. What's left? Now he'll have
to screw in a new skull, losing all
memories bound in his old dome...
No! Bulbs cup vacuum. Our souls accrue
Elsewhere. Don't despair. So much to do!
Let's free Friend Two: claw at pod stuck
virgin-shut. Managers tug & pry. No luck...
These new Mood Elevators suck.
I'll revert to stairs. Safe walk.
