The attic cardboard boxes of the future
will be filled with dusty memory drives
that no longer fit the ports of new computers.
Either that or maybe there will be an old PC
among them as a record keeper of a past
you can only see in former resolutions.

This isn’t much different than the various
grades of paper dating back to things like papyrus
in Egypt or even further with some blood smeared
on the stone wall of a cave.
I like to think that if the medium is the message
we won’t abandon all the old ones.

It’s important to me that if we do keep this thing running
and the sabotage is held at bay,
and all the wrongs are righted just enough for justice,
that in the museum chronicling this time
they’ll have a Super Nintendo plugged into the wall.

Even as I shape these lines I know there are writers
in their graves ashamed that I am looking at a screen.
I don’t know what it means for things to transform
over time until they can’t be recognized by those
who had a claim to know them best.

Nostalgia ultimately is a gravestone with an entertaining
epitaph; one that’s often so compelling it reduces us
to shadows that go back there every day with newer flowers.
I am tired of standing on that hillside where it is content
with getting colder and the names are barely legible at all.
The lights of the city kick on at the moment
all the world comes to a stand still.

A whale vertebrae hangs behind the judge
as they decide it’s not the time for second chances,
and while they read out all the paperwork
there’s a fire being started in a barrel
just to fill the day with smoke.

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