PRESS THE ONLINE

A newspaper poem for the online generation.
A few verses for the ink that gets on your fingers
And comes off in trails of guilty fingerprints
Down at the station
Before being booked
As an accomplice.

Because the ink of newspapers is blood
Because the paper cuts.

It cuts much like the headlines 
In a daily vision 
Flooded by the loudspeakers
Blasting away the military takeovers
We should know about this morning
But that took place yesterday.

And in this vision the classifieds become the obituaries
The obituaries become the food section
And sports becomes Dear Abby.
The editorials become the chess page
The editorials become the personals
The editorials become the phone sex pages
Full of 976s and OJ lines.
And the editor becomes Dear Abby.