For a sexual revolution
it’s remarkably like sitting.
Don’t get me wrong,
there’s some fine monitors out there
but they hold no tongue
to the grace of touch
pirouetted down a glance’s flare
heating the muddy pools of Woodstock;
it’s held now, at the push of a button
agonizing seconds of cyberspace
as to whether winky face
implies a wink or sillier drink
while pictures, trailing a thousand lols
peel off the layers between
expediency and self-preservation
disillusioned lies of privacy
undermining the intimacy
of human artistry.