Interstitial lingo with Chickens in Abeyance

I'm going to try this again from a more cohesive vein of thought. Then maybe I can bash them together and make it all right.

~

Scanned

I didn't put the lid down.
My sketch on tissue, squashed by hand,
fluttered its protest at the greenish light.
I know it's just the fan, but I can almost
hear screams. It's scanned.
I lift my palm, and it comes with it. Stuck
and seemingly whole. Or maybe holey.
My joy in it seems burnt away. Happiness
in ashes; still in the air but disappearing at a touch.
I've been scanned too. My recent flight arrested
for a bath of light. Or magnets, or X-rays.
Whatever they used to comb me through.
My luggage as well. Zapped at every juncture
conveyed by rayed belt in the bowels of the gates.
It would be nice to say I read the In Flight mag,
but the truth is I scanned it in ennui.
I hate the sound of it. The blips and beeps
paired with lights of red and green
kissing my very sustenance in
the grocery line. I have no fear of photos,
but this slow pixillation has burnt me to a disk.
Somehow I know the glass plate calls to lay
my cheek on its bed. I might have already;
in static dreaming on the interstitial web.