Archivist by Jonel Abellanosa

“Afterlife” needs redefinition when this technology
Becomes public. We’re pioneers of preserving
Consciousness. First among equals, Jobs, his mind
Downloaded and stored before his brain and body
Expired, the virtual Steve now omnipresent: we’ve seen
Forms of otherworlds he sees – as presentations of
Gripping colorations, or it’s his imagination. Kaleidoscopic
Holograms suggest lilts and lurements of language:
(I thought I saw Einstein and his smazed smile.) My
Job ensures the Visionary Minds database workable,
Keeping snapshots of next realms like abstractions,
Loading the right consciousness for consultations. The
Mind of Steve Jobs has been uploaded dozens of times,
Norms of his thinking for epigenetic algorithms. I
Offset my aloneness manning digital shelves, writing
Poetry as caffeine for boredom. I wonder if my poems are
Quixotic enough to earn me a place next to Heaney and
Rich, their new poems from the beyond haunting my
Sleepiness. Diabetes overrunning my body, taking its
Toll on physicality. Could my work or poems secure the
Understanding that my senses be saved, here?
Vanity. My role doesn’t require exotic skills.
When I leave this body I won’t want to be summoned by
Expectations. I’ve neither answers nor achievements, only
Years of perseverance. They want prophecy from poets,
Zones of mind whose accuracies proceed from words.