Steve Jobs Is Dead.
(A small little something I wrote for a visionary I honestly admired.)
He had lost too much weight, strangers could see that,
and weight is the first thing to go say the experts, first thing
that’s missed and it was gone, the fleshy weight of him,
his black turtleneck loose on his frame, jeans that used
to fit, cinched tight. We saw the cancer keep pace
with him, in the pixels of our screens, a pale horse that
trotted next to the man’s excitement. We watched the keynote,
and he talked about numbers, about the future, about
something he once dreamed about while he slept, a dream
he remembered when he woke up and covered in aluminum,
brushed metal, a dream his developers filled with Cocoa and
Webkit and no idea what else, we didn’t care, it was beautiful,
this machine, it was something we wanted, something we were
promised, like jetpacks, like hover cars. He talked about the future
and we applauded, we criticized, we made our requests
like prayers, just one more feature and we’ll be happy, we vowed,
we swore, we lied. It was over too soon. We saw the horse
nibble his ankle to prod him along. Slow exit stage right.
Steve Jobs is dead.
