The internet cafe

He-man on Harbord street beside the alleys behind Bickford Park, tampering with hydrants for a lark - fifteen minutes after dark. Crowbar Sam and Juliet dance the downtown minuet, trading saliva and gum after smoking a cigarette. The laundromat has a wide foggy window, cleanfreaks avoid each other, apologizing for existence, inches apart in a social limbo. Flicker of the bicycle repair shop open sign neon. Slush on my pantleg but it dries soon enough, enter like an unhip oscar winner, order soup at the counter from an unshaven guff. Park to carve my stuff: Connect wirefree, float fast, giggle-tee-hee; clickety-beep bumblebeeings don’t make sense to me. Another dumb numbness. I’ve had enough. Spazzing on –asms: orgasm chasms; my big black book spasms, burps and sleeps. Spamming my brainstem; who wants to play chess. The silent screen sickens me. Do I hear correctly, yes?