Honoria in Ciberspazio

Repository for Edited Material


I never meant to rob myself of a tune,

Attuned as I was to its multi-threaded bloom.


She’s looking for a new adventure, Abandoning her life of censure.


What’s next in hypertext must be slow and sweet,

untrammeled by hang-ups, by nerdiness unvexed.


Who do I think I am,

wandering the by-ways and back alleys of the information highways

singing high notes of my life’s theme before there were computers, and
pixels on a screen.

a system of visual knowledge cultural purpose: authorized sovreign subjectivity

our assembled forms and multiple selves between two towers of promise
and danger lies our path, lit by the dawn of the virtual age

And yet, these shifting colors of doubt leave me well alone.

Regression becomes me not despite my logic I am bothered,

hot the cooling rains of reason are long to come entangled in memories
of the brilliant sun.

Perhaps there are times when illusion is right,

when photographs smile and hold you tight.

When I was a boy, I would sometimes play tag with the clouds in the sky,
stick them in a bag when I caught them,

and bring them out at night to keep me company and kiss them, hold them tight.

Lovers, it seems, are like those clouds.

They vaporize just when you want them to look into your eyes.

So long as cyborgs breathe, or lenses see

So long lives code, and this gives life to thee

Not a human, not a clone

The cyborg sits, brooding, alone.


There’s a gondola that’s leaving soon for the Rialto.

Do you what you want to do at the fleshmeet,

a little basso, a little alto?

St. Mark’s is virtually here,

with virtual pigeons, and gondolier.

Our human questions, what can they mean?

A cyberspace passion or clear the screen?


These lonely boys with their obsolete keyboards and outmoded ideas of
what makes us broads really tick, tick me off something fierce.

As if reality were something they could pierce with a virtual arrow!

As if fingertips typing plastic all day could touch my lips!

surface-to-depth technosphere

architecture on the haptic horizon

A memory/revisitation of The ORACLE interprets the cyborgic true love as false.

ORACLE voice or presence All oily winds the mournful cyborg’s drone Oppressed
with dart of tender Eros’ clone. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy
love more strong To love that well which thou replace ere long.

Come, succumb to the taste of truth

sharp, spicy, sweet aged vermouth

a lover’s flavor of candle-lit nights

on a breeze to savor, we soar like kites.

Bring me the grit – true love has a raspy cough

And your pristine screen? Save it! I’d rather !! ## and click off.


It’s obvious, you see?

Plus, Plus, a touching resolution

to mortality’s paradox is .Rez’s solution.

Without human dress to hide his mess

his bones, his flesh and skin consumed.

Human exhumed!

Cries muted by the fire’s roar–

thumbprint, retina, diamond, pearl

common accidents, snowflakes melting, .Rez’s hurl.

Regardless, now

burning with passion,

the skinny mantle he once wore.


in cold elegance you stand alone

banalities of physicalities overthrown

something twists unseeing

inside your raging misperceiving

of self-sacrificial rote

you dictated, translated the wrong note.

Imagination skewed all bounds

constraining constant rebirth transcendent of earth

We revel in the power of an infinite mother

for no other dare sketch the goddess at play in quick stroked daubs

painting our online islands of mixed metaphors and sobs.

Plastic now melted, remainder to ash.

All memory lost with disks, RAM, and cache.

Glowing pain on my screen waits forever

continuing on electronic paths I will never

revel in conscious touch of strong hands

or renew the promise of golden bands


Evolution is less mediated by the conquest of one varient by another than
by their ability to adapt together

The total pattern of change is somewhat like a change in metaphor from
reality as a machine toward reality as a conscious organism

voice tone pitch inflection, speaking-being in time

pluralistic and plastic character of reality

product of complicated discursive practices (sandy)

error-prone epistemological fallibilism (sandy)

reflexive elaboration of the event (sandy)

: the making is remaking.

constructed for us as if they were actually there

cyberspace enhanced replicated dreams

empty shells of our mirrored selves

Announce your stakes

Whatever happened to good old causality?

There is no pain, no death, no sorrow

Anguish, horror, today or tomorrow

And on first thought, yes, this seems true

But with further reflection a clearer view.