I sing the body of electronic OS! the corpus delectable, the blurs of pain and sweet joy on the activated phosphor on the scratch-resistant glass; the orderly diodes, emitting light and heat and mess, the human mismatch and hurly-burly and kiss-kiss and disaffection and Original Glamour and peerless camaraderie

and here we are momentary love and the flounce of prevention and we are not ghosts in the aisles. Here we turn tap tap tap into feel and caress and blithe and horror and OUTRAGE and effort and 

I sing the OS effort! the writers becoming, the writers who build their craft with the right rite: writing, just writing. 

I sing the Voice! I sing the ears, I sing the full throat and the open heart, I sing the mindfulness and the inane and the twinkle; I sing the lark and the snark and the skewered trolling shark; I sing OS!

I declaim: not posting is a grey, treeless plain. I declare: I love OS! I murmur: I love what my life is with OS.

I fly here, I lie here, in Elysian leisure, god of tap tap tap, with all the gods and goddesses and bodhisattvas and demiurges, drunks and tailors and crofters and fluffers, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing tappers who fall corrected and rise dejected and go at it again, cramped by the lust for Cover -- but indifferent when it counts, when despair mounts and must be described, when memory urges, when sly insists and taptaptap is the only antidote,

and o yes, OS will know, and will not let me languish.

I sing antidote! to brats and failure and distraction, to ignor-a-muses, to the perennial sense of nothing, to the illusion that we have nothing, not even nothing, that we have holes where nothing might have lived

I sing in OS: of surgeries and lost romance and runner's high and awful moms and cruel fathers and beloveds who die and loss and grief. I sing redemption and political pie, high slices full of cherry-picked facts,  juicy dishes of public go-figures.

And political balls, played where they Lie and Lie, endlessly...

 I sing: more than scribble, more than scrabble, more than scramble for the EP "A"! I sing the real deal, even with the marked cards we're stuck with. I sing fears played on, worried at, til they are familiar, frayed at the edges, and then set aside, commented away.

I sing Personas slicked back, scanned by shrewd OS, revealed as momentary affect only; teased, deflated, made to stand after-bathos, dripping, unruly, sheepish, just another OS monkey, hooting in the ancient OS temple at midnight.

I sing OS souls like twists of wind, momentarily well-formed, our shapes visible from our words, the leaves that define our movement upwards, beautiful in the OS light, doomed always to fall apart, right at the height of our power, goddamnit.

I sing the search for a new draft, to carry us up again.

I sing forearm hairs, hairs on the back of our necks, faint and precious, rising unbidden when brushed by another's words and how good is that? what magic that your taptaptap becomes me here? swooning, over your words, the kitsy rise, the swirl again and again, hypnotized by your human Voice, your OS Voice, your ache and beauty and heartbeat, felt here

a million million miles away, just beyond the phosphor, the glass, the enter-face, in my taptaptap roots, embedded deep in the nourishing and ambrosaic gardens, the personal plots, the Elysian Fields, of OS.