45

SECRET SELF

If the social is a radio
Giving a scent of rusting lettuce
Then to have a love
That draws one into the interior
Beats television's ass

O icon I click on

Oboe of data singing itself to sleep
On a leather recliner.
All the same the social sometimes
Gives on a glade
A path through trees in the dark

O secret self

That too is something to pick out of the air
As long as the transmitter stands.
As long as the station manager
Has patience for the format,
Read Carnap aloud three minutes,

Then blast Connie Planck!