poem of the day 02.25.13

pathetique

tchaikovsky is dying on stage

the philharmonic is bleeding his sixth

but the woman in row g has her cell phone on

moving her fingers and texting away

like she’s on the train ride home from work

perhaps she’s blogging about the music at hand

but chances are good that she’s looking

for a bar nearby to shoot down a few drinks after the performance

or making plans for the next night

it’s just as well because she’s not the only one

the guy in row j is catching up on basketball scores

and checking his bank  account

the woman in row p has her ipad out

and is shaking the thing like an etch a sketch

the man in row r is watching a movie on his device

and the old woman next to me is looking up her medicare benefits

amongst these well-dressed dullards

exist pockets of electric blue screens

glowing like an ocean at noon

it comes in a wave as each of them shrug

give in

and join the crowd

there is no escape from this barrage of back-lit insanity

at either baseball games or here at lincoln center

people pissing money away on this brave new world

and tchaikovsky is dying on stage for this

pieces of our brains and our being have died

for this digital servitude

it’s almost sad

but it’s become so de rigueur that it almost doesn’t matter

we’ve let tchaikovsky die before

and we’ve missed so much in this zombie effort to attain it all

that when the performance ends

and the people rise up to slap out their thunderous applause

shouting bravo

bravo!

at the orchestra

as they put their technological gods away

if for only a moment

you wonder if they even know

what in the hell it is that they’re cheering about.