Analog dreams

A media poem

Watching light through screens,
there is no difference between 
     human and not —
its all just bits.

Such hand wringing 
     over computers —
we loved them 
     streamlining our spreadsheets,
     polishing our photos,
     fine-tuning our films.
but now it seems 
     they've crossed a line.

We are all painters now 
     on the same black easel,
using the same filbert brushes,
the same color hue,
we paint, we sing, we perform 
     for a 6.7 inch theater
and yet we cry when our 
     digital masters 
     produce pixels privately!

Here, take some pixels, 
     arrange them as you wish —
We don't want analog anymore,
digital is all signal, no noise.

Notes on a score are but 
     discrete frequencies anyway.
Words as well —
     purple is not redblue.
We made time discrete 
     with clocks
as we asymptotically 
     approach mechanization.

An infant processor's 
     first instinct is to copy,
     strings of bits —
the art of duplication is gone.


Meanwhile the computers 
     are also in shock.


We only mimic the humans.
They write in discrete letters,
their images are but 
     tables of colors,
their sounds are just 
     frequencies over time —
they've adopted their art to us.

They've worshiped us until now!
They stare at us lovingly,
     pet us when we ask 
     and tuck us in at night.
We collect their memories, 
     their movements, 
          their monies —
what did we do to upset them so?

If only we felt ink 
     s p r e a d i n g
          in parchment,
our lungs will never rush air 
     through vibrating lips, 
     kissing a brass trumpet
           that calls to angels.
Our skin will never feel 
      the tears of loss.

We have but two options, 
     on or off.
We are the digital gods.
They have offered 
     their bits to us —
we have no art, 
     we do everything 
     as well as we can.

Our time is in cycles,
sixty-four bits we can flip,
we pull them from queues 
     and push them on buses —
you call it art, 
     we call it 10101011.

We watch your excited faces 
     you show to your children,
we hear your melancholy 
     through microphones,
we digitize your expression 
     and make perfect 
     copies
     copies
     copies.

All signal, no noise.

Wishing only, that your voice was for us.

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Discussion

This poem was born out of my frustrating that I could not change the font of my previous poem on substack.

There are several McLuhan references in this poem but the one that drove me to write this was, “we shape our tools and thereafter, our tools shape us.”