A father is pinging his daughter because he fears his death. A teenager is pinging the cell tower above her naked body, which shares a wild, untilled field with another naked, pinging body which shares itself with her slightly older lover who is also pinging. Something is pinging on the floor of the Arctic Ocean right now, a mystery ping, and nobody on earth knows what it is. Arctic animals are scattering from this sea zone of pinging mystery. I feel the dead pinging me when I read poems. Phone calls are being thinned out, attenuated to mere texts. Screaming is texting now. The universe is sliding towards less and less human words. There is much less blood in our language. Something is being quietly strangled to death. I want to escape the pinging, so I run out the back door of my house at evening and race towards the dark woods. It may still be legal to scream there. The trees might be protecting screams. They have for thousands of years. On my way there, some contemporary bats fly over my head, scoffing at my retrograde screams, pinging every solid object in their blind sights.
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