Published in Overland Issue 207 Winter 2012 · Uncategorized To Nina Pam Brown once upon a time 19 hundred 68 is over is thin politics dashed, disconnected, diachronicity indicating technology’s noisy cataclysm & flashing strobe boxed in a dusty garage 19 hundred 98 is over is how to scratch the future when it’s gone, thinking pastness is up ahead 20 oh 8 is over is atmospheric brooding, interpretation rules the day, the weeks, years, the centuries sliding in to hide beneath the warmth of flock and shoddy, ruffling dust in the circuitry 20 ten is nothing else – laser beam a pilot’s eyes, upstage an apocalypse, my ten cent technophile you’re in my echo chamber, my feedback loop 20 twelve is corporately social, filtered, nothing deviant here, hop away now, recharge, unencumbered & unapologetic Nina – an entry in a ledger, all’s big data Pam Brown Pam Brown has published many chapbooks, pamphlets and full collections of poetry, most recently Stasis Shuffle (Hunter Publishers, 2021). She lives in a south Sydney suburb on reclaimed swampland on Gadigal Country. More by Pam Brown › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 12 May 202414 May 2024 · Cartoons “Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage”: the anti-war meaning of Mother’s Day Sam Wallman What we now call Mother's Day was born of the anti-war movement. In 1870, Julia Ward Howe called for an annual 'Mother's Peace Day': "Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caress and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn what we have been able to teach them..." 10 May 202410 May 2024 · Friday Poetry Disorientation John Kinsella A strong south-westerly cuts through the shutters and wakes me out of synch. Disorientated, I try to start a different story but have to secure the window. I am harried and haunted by the horrors of Du Pont. I cannot get away from them whispering at each node of modernity. Where will I arrive after this?