A Wake for Tesla
Juggler of sparks, wireless-dreamer, the little lightnings that crawled your nerves sing out into the world forever. Every pylon makes a monument. Your dovecote heart still resounds with grey wings drumming. Another future slid away with you: a vacuum stitched with voices falls dumb, no telegrams arrive from Mars. Dreadnoughts fought bloodless wars only in your mind; but, like flowers, we press your dreams inside pulp magazines.
May 1st, 2013