On Becoming a Computer Over a Lifetime (Diary of a Programmer 09)
I remember organic days
playing in the sandbox in the backyard,
falling out of the tree,
drops of blood on the concrete back steps
after the babysitter hit my brother in the mouth
with a metal bat (accidentally).
I remember gripping things
with my fingers and the touch of those
that are not the keyboard, the mouse.
Now I take out my device and leave it
on the table during dinner.
Now I scroll through my pictures
remembering everything that happened
in the past month or two,
or even in the past year or decade.
Now when I get tired I say, “My power
is running out,” or, “My battery is getting low,”
or I put on a YouTube video of funny cats
and fall asleep with it on, feeding the feed.
Pretty soon I will check the news
in my glasses while I am in the waiting room,
waiting to see if I am eligible
for an artificial this or that.
And when I reach the point of more
than fifty percent parts that are chipped
I hope you’ll bake me a cake,
one that isn’t made out of oil,
and I hope that my stomach will be
one of the last organic organs
to be replaced, and let’s throw
my tongue in there as well
so I can taste the layers of chocolate,
so I can taste the layers of blueberry,
while you capture the moment
for the digital archive
that will be inherited
by our cyber kids after we’re gone
in a few hundred years.