What do you do online?

Do you decide which pictures to post and what captions to place?

Like for example,
three little plastic cups of Coke lite from a man probably paid 700P a night to give out free drinks to them who look like the world is a bar-to-bar-to-drink-to-drink-to-song-to-song-to-story-to-story -- infinite party-place maybe. Or maybe not, because 2am or 3am wristwatches tell them that there's a limit to all the blahs and glurps or tears and extremely loud laughter - there's sleep to go "home" to, even if only for 3hours.

Or do you check your Friendster account, see the list on "Who's Viewed Me?" Perhaps someone was curious enough to open your page, see the photos you've posted, look up your profile and read "Married" in highlights under status.

There's someone you'd want to forget in a photo carrying a baby, little niño perhaps? Single? Unattached? Missing someone? Too afraid to try again?

You? Would you want to have my name run an
anonymous link from your page? Or would you rather have my name posted in bold,
Vera
Female, 21, Married
Profile Viewed: 58 times since 1/11/2006
Zodiac Sign: Taurus
Location: Philippines
Hometown: cebu city

floating letters in this online web, reconnecting, disconnecting, searching, surfing, from one name to another, part of the access to the "lost and found section" of the world's new idea of a community.

Do you post words of poets who speak uninhibited editions of fear and of the urgency to take it all in?

O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,

with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,

with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,

(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)

what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?

Thief --
how did you crawl into,

crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,

the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,

the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,

the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,

the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?

(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)

O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,

how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy

to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,

and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,

and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides

and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,

(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)

And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,

what is your death
but an old belonging,

a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?

(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)

O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

Would you sit and stare at the monitor for minutes. Open Google. Write a name, click search, and be overwhelmed by all those records stored and kept to be opened by one click - that name again under each titled series of words better left only read and not comprehended.

Online.

Shit.

I sit and think,
escape
to another page.
Go back.

This time, you're gone.

Last log-in: 54minutes ago.