Among twenty venture capitalists,

The only moving thing

Was the CEO of the dot-com.



I was of three minds,

Like an office complex

In which there are three dot-coms.



The dot-com whirled in the Internet World reception.

It was a small part of the pantomime.



A sysadmin and an Apache server

Are one.

A sysadmin and an Apache server

and a dot-com

Are one.



I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The dot-com financial report

Or just after.



Designers filled the browser window

With Shockwave animations.

The shadow of the dot-com

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the pixels

An indecipherable navigation.



O thin men of NASDAQ,

Why do you imagine profitability?

Do you not see how the dot-com

Captures the eyeballs

Of the demographic about you?



I know readable content

And lucid, inescapable database access schemes;

But I know, too,

That the dot-com is involved

In what I know.



When the dot-com went 404,

It marked the end

Of one of many Web rings.



At the sight of dot-coms

Flogged by sock puppets

Even the wisest investors

Become slightly childlike.



He rode over Redmond

In a glass coach.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his operating platform

For dot-coms.



The market is moving.

The dot-com must be flying.



It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The dot-com sat

In the bookmark list.

LA Weekly