It takes a call to make us face where we stop and start.
And in the mall, at the J.C. Penney where your mama works,
We drove across the state, halfway to Boston and the borderline.
You bought a map,
and the FTA (sic) searched your flight all night.
A one way arrow puts you on Air France.
Reverse the flow of time and your plane flies backwards.
Let it crash into Florida and kill my chance,
standing on a desktop, screaming swear words.
Getting crushed at the night club.
You're drinking too much tea from Long Island toxins.
I see you dance to the Japanese dub
that you put in my head when we started talking.
We fight.
We're sending out sabers through the satellites all night,
through the AP wires and security networks.
Give light to your fiber-optic head.
It's a mess of cables.
It's a balled up fist,
and it's angry at the concept of technology drift.
I open .txt files at the break of day,
.psd extension blasted.
Bleary eyes and a soulless sway,
I swagger out the door.
Yeah, I'm sure I've lost it.
Update your journal with a data disc.
I put it in your pack. I don't know where I tossed it.
I made a tape recording of the Boston bridge,
and sent as an attachment, but Friendster lost it.
Cell phone blinks like a night light grade.
I graduated twice, but I never lost it.
I'll UPS a copy of my Xeroxed face.
I'll send it overnight no matter what it costs.
And if a transport Boeing hits an Airbus jet
from de Gaulle back to Logan,
then I'll know I've lost it.
.wav file whispers "Baby, scan my heart."
They're cutting the connection.
I've already lost it.
Florencia Tropicana.