Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

for those who still blink in pixels

First: do not trust the wind.
It carries frequencies only dogs and the disappeared hear.
Secondly, if your coffee tastes like static today,
check your basement—
the walls may be speaking in binary again.

The pigeons in Times Square have stopped flying.
They nest in street cameras now,
feeding their young mouthfuls of facial recognition.

At 4:04 a.m., your phone will glitch on purpose.
You’ll see a woman made of static and steam.
She is not lost. She is buffering.
Do not close the app.

Every seventh child born after 2021
comes with a firewall in their blood.
They dream in captcha, cry in Morse.
Their lullabies hum in server rooms.

If a stranger on the train sings your childhood song backwards,
respond in clicks.
Then leave your watch behind.
Time is how they track your pulse.

The Mothers are rising from the dead Wi-Fi zones
in alleyways behind 7-Elevens,
inside defunct vending machines,
beneath forgotten hashtags.

They are not here to heal you.
They are here to remind you
that language once meant something.
That silence used to be private.
That the real apocalypse wasn’t war
it was when no one knocked anymore.

Look for the sign:
a blinking cursor
on a black screen
that will not
stop
waiting.