The Myth of Prometheus

Prometheus, misnamed master tinkerer,
progenitor of a creative class,
chained to a rock like John Jandali,
wanting in forethoughtfulness;
was it wise to trust us 
with such a powerful force
in the palm of my hand?
The prideful Luddites:
perhaps we have misjudged them,
laboring in some garment factory, 
fearing replacement by machines,
not technology.
Was what the Bard said of drink
equally true of “screen time” today:
that so far as performance comes and goes,
it “provokes the desire but takes away,”
longing to experience actuality,
though it’s the simulacrum that we see;
enticing us with less a jolt of adrenaline,
more a constant drip of dopamine, more 
light glimmering into the mind’s eye
than 
wind in hair, dirt in toes, sun on skin?
Were I to return clear and free
to a state of existence
outside the reaches of digital technology,
where even might I begin, and
to what end:
hung like a tragic John the Savage
outside the walls of the World State?
In my thought experiment, tantalizing,
safe with no risk of eviction 
from my community,
shunned;
not suffering in isolation to contemplate,
rather, just a glissando of great magnitude, 
taking us from human ambient passivity 
to recapitulation of tactile pleasures in the natural world,
back to the way we lived
before von Neumann began to deliberate 
upon Pandora’s box of CPUs
evolving into a psychological state.
My new old life would awaken to a clock radio,
no Gerhard Lengeling theme,
a Franklin Planner,
no apps to drive productivity,
no thumb to glass, but 
pen to paper,
no backspaces, just 
scratch-throughs, 
composing and rearranging inside my head 
before committing to ink.
Blessed are they short-circuited 
by rolls of TikTok videos 
lasting into eternity,
for they shall inherit 
in conflict of tradition 
the singularity.
Perhaps we have misjudged them,
they who wish for lower-case jobs at fair pay,
and children who on most days
leave the confines of the house to feel 
wind in hair, dirt in toes, sun on skin.