Love Song of A Blogger [Prufrock?]

Instructions: Take T.S. Eliot, the Huffington Post and a blogger. Dice. Stir until evenly distributed. Add salt to taste.

One of the beauties of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is that it works outward in, first dealing with the world before exploring how the poet fits into it. I didn't realize it until I was more than halfway done with this...work. I don't want to call it a parody. I'd rather think of it as a tribute. I will add links as I find more articles that apply.

Let us go then, you and me
As the search terms are spread out against the screen,
Endless winking code at our disposal;
Let us scroll, through certain near-collapsing rags,
Paltry papers, stagnant mags,
Time, the Times, all digitized; to print farewell!
these companies' profits have gone to hell.
Google guides you through a tedious argument
Of questionable intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the box the search terms come and go
Ads and stolen content glow.

The many blogs that pitch their work upon the Internet,
The many sites that host the content on the Internet
Spoke their silence into the black of cyberspace,
Wrangled their words through wires,
Let appear response from countless mouths and fingers,
Slipped around firewalls, made a sudden leap
And seeing the conversations they had stirred,
Continue spilling text as readers sleep.

And indeed there will come time
For the yellowed forlorn sheets that slide along the street
Smudging ink, crumpling, folded, torn;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a democracy where news is free;
There will be time for people to create
A new model, work of new brains and hands
That type and put their thoughts upon your screen:
Thoughts from you and thoughts from me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions, parenthetical revisions,
Before a new model we must meet.

In the box the search terms come and go
Our darkest thoughts, recorded, glow.

And indeed there will be Times
Editors wonder, "How'd I err?" and, "how'd I err?"
Time to look forward, instead of stare
At that dinosaur with disapproving glare.
[They will say: "How the revenue is growing thin!"]
Your mourning shroud, sackcloth strapped across your waste,
Do not despair; confront the problem you are faced-
[The will say: "But how the revenue is growing thin!"]
Do you dare
Disturb the blogosphere?
Internet allows the space
For decisions and revisions that in print could not appear.

For I have known them all already, known them all:-
Have known the evening paper, morning post
I have found the papers I like reading most.
I've heard the voices dying, heard them all
Beneath the print and paper's thin ghost.
So how should I presume?

And I cannot know them all together, not at all,
Two eyes that scan and interpret a phrase,
With so much information spread out on a page;
They pin the beautiful creature to the wall,
Then continue to engage
The text in so many different varied ways.
And how should I presume?

And I have seen the pens already, seen them fall-
Pens gripped by citizens on the trail
[But off the bus, what precious new details!]
But should they then confess
When for quotes they transgress?
Quotes that lie or are dishonest, quotes at all,
So who might I then trust?
And how do I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have surfed at midnight through the nets,
And watched debates flow through those tubes,
Those lonely men and women, running Windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged hands
Scuttling across the desk on clicking keys.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, pass so peacefully!
All those clacking fingers,
Do they sleep ... tire ... does dread malinger
Stretching their brains, mad for you and me?
Should I, after writing countless words in essays
Have the strength to examine what the Huffington Post displays?
But though I have wept and groaned, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my words [grown slightly limp] on the web's uncaring platter
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And seen my blog stare back at me and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the words, the essays I have spat
Into the blogosphere, among some talk of this or that,
Would it have been all worth while,
To have bitten off perspective with a smile,
To have squeezed the day's news into a ball
To ask myself and you some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am legion, for we are many,
Come to inform you all, I shall tell you all"-
If one, reading this blog post or any,
Should say: "I do not understand at all.
Understand it not at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the paper Times, the magazines, Gutenberg's dream,
After the novels, and all paper, after wearing suits to go to work-
And this, and so much more?-
It is impossible to say just where we'll be!
But as if a magic lantern threw our fears in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If the one paper left per city were to fall,
And turning to its readers say:
"We're sorry, that is all,
No more content, that is all."
. . . . .
No! These are not weak structures, nor were meant to be;
Are the fourth estate, one that will try
To swell a progress, keep a wary eye
On government; and not become a tool,
Independent, glad to be of use,
Truthful, relevant, and meticulous;
Full of pride and pity, ready to expose abuse;
All times, indeed, pushing progress-
Almost never the Fool.

They grow old ... They grow old ...
Their pants wear thin, and cyberspace is cold.

Shall they part with paperdom? Or practice what they preach?
For there are others out there who can analyze a speech.
I have heard the papers calling, each to each.

I think that they might search for me.

I have seen them riding westward on the plains
Combing through financial sheets of black gone red
When a cold wind chills and transfixes icy dread.

They have lingered while technology has changed
We hope they might find some way around:
That what human voice still lingers, will not drown.