A Death at One Hundred

In 2014 I was born And one hundred years later I die:

Cut my brain and trace The strata of radio signals Layered deep like the ocean.

Age my flesh by the layers of Grime and smog and peer Through my eyes to study distortions Burned and worn by the rivulets Of twenty four seven news cycles.

Trace on my fingertips the keys I have Caressed from birth.

Scatter my bones like birdseed Across the landfills and the wreckage That they might find the screens that once told me I was loved.