Jeff Bagato

Hashing the Input

                                                       not one that has died
                                               but one which 
                                                               was born,
                                     a ghost word becomes
                          fact by repetition 
                                              and use; the phantom finds
                                                             body in being seen; only
                                                    after an event
                                         does history offer receipts

                                                        a plastic voice box
                             sounds like the real thing;
                                               a severed limb still
                                                                  sends messages
                                    from beyond the grave

                                     no race, no win,
                    no turning back—
                                knotted words clutter
                                                   hollow lands with bytes,
                                           hacks & clues

                                                    more ash, 
                                                                more klinker,
                                      more smog,
                                                                           more slime—
                                                         emit damage
                                           and what decays 
                                                           to defeat real truth

                              wherever there are ruins, lies
                                                  like flames
                                                            dance across time; empty
                                   towers, a broken fortress, stone
                      dead markers on an open plain:
                                            night can’t fall on an empire
                                                        already drowned under
                                                                                  an inky sea—

                                          its books all gone to the secret 
                                                               dark of a lexicon salted
                                                   down with nonce
                                                         and hash

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, H&, Ex-Ex Lit, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Spells of Coming Day (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.
 
 
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