Charles Bukowski's Poems About the Technological Singularity

I awaken and go out to hear the fuss
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot
squinting at the stage
gingerly walking down towards the front
where I can see the seams in the
TED talker's face.

Everyone is texting
whatever that means
and listening to this woman tell us about
goats
clouds
holographs
old dreams of whiskey
rioting while I try to listen
she is making shapes in the air

"christ," I say
gathering up my bag of piss, my pockets full
of old candies,
jesus christ wouldn't believe this
what is a smart gesture?
she asks and answers

"sit down," says a man
made out of his haircut
and bad looks from sharp glasses
"fuck off," I say in no uncertain terms
both hands birding
and these jokers,
like they can't imagine the age of 50.

there's only one thing for this place.

I'll have to find out what the Internet of Things is some other night.