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February 16, 2010
The last gasp of print media
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![[The last gasp of print media]](img2/verse/longfellowevangelinepage.jpg)
The first guy talking is a structural engineer
sure Building 7 was imploded. The second is
the inventor of print on demand. Using his
technology, when you put your paper near
an iPhone, RFID will upload everything
from pics to airline tickets. You'll get a smart hard
copy in the mail: "Better than a fucking e-card,"
says the woman all three guys are following.
The third is peddling a script that may have money attached,
and that alone in California is enough
to keep them talking, hope of money. Made of rough
sandstone the house with harbor view and faux thatched
roof is soon to be foreclosed. But for now one girl
and three third wheels savor the winestained competition.
She's half the guys' average age. In the open kitchen,
crouched on a stool she thinks of other things: the curl
of paper in the glossy she's here to do a story
for; her dog; her fiancé. The guys could be
a book of footnotes: John Jay, Zeppo, Brandon Lee,
or the backseat guy from Dirty Mary Crazy Larry.
Once it was cool to remember postcards, paperboys,
scary New York, the shattered Beirut airport where
cats nested on a lost-luggage hill. Now who can care
about that stuff, when paper is historical noise
and map-reading a skill as vain as horsemanship?
All emotions ever felt, the wrath of Achilles,
a fourth-grade crush, the pride of the Nuremberg rallies,
fit in a smartphone: The truther's friend has sold an app
to make it searchable. The others take that hint
and start the deathwatch: Do they still sell the Thomas Guide?
Don't let the Sunday Times, that shedding dog, inside.
"I don't read the newspapers because they all have ugly print."
The printer stands his ground: Imagine getting a Greenleaf
with content customized for you; a Junior Whirl
springloaded like a popup book. He's lost the girl
by now, but because she's got an old soul her chief
response is hope for him: for a deftly wrinkled age
of pulp and locking diaries, for children who think
we used to search our lovers' shelves for notes in ink,
marginal clues from hearts as dried out as a page.
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