True Bullshit

Baby?

I’m sure you’ll inspire a poem someday.

It’s not that your boring.

From another perspective we could just say I can’t articulate what your inspiration would sound like.

I’m sorry I came in your hair just after you washed it, but I heard that it make a great mosturizer.

I’m stocking up tropical fruit juice so it can taste just like tapioca pudding.

Let’s buy an extra 40.

We need fuel for the late night cartoon maraton and we both know that our attention spans are non-existant.

A fellow child of care-bears and nintindo.

I’ll try not to hog halo sessions all night and turn it low when your deep in a paper.

Kick me out the place often.

We exist in the odd pairs that live joined on the floor and then of to our seperate apartments.

Do you have extra lotion?

Those rug-burned knees look painfully sore and you are one behind in orgasams anyway.

We share a spare newport.

I swear it’s the last box that you’ll ever bum while you pack a fresh bowl for the simpsons.

It’s 3 in the morning:
cake humid air & we dry to a fan ossolating.

Your mother’s so ugly
she stood on the stoop with her face to the sky
and the sun blinked away in a flash.
______

one more for my baby in what has been a fantastic week of valentine’s day. Not that that matters of anything

Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #2

After all, (as posted by Mr. Haggard onto a patriot hacker message board
3 days after the event of September 11, 2001) if the protection of our country requires the sacrifices of the physically able on the battlefields abroad, how much more so do the technologically able need to contribute right here at home? True, our fingers may be too cramped to man machineguns, our retinas too weak to spot an incoming insurgents, our legs too awkward to clear even the smallest sand dunes, but our minds, my friends, our minds could prove to be the greatest asset one could give to our country. Surely in this new age of new war, a new focus on newer, smarter ways of intelligence gathering must be brought into a new state of newness. I’m sure all kinds of exciting opportunities are opening up for streamlining old CIA computer systems to make sure all the info we get is the right info. I, for one, can’t to see how to contribute to the making the America the most advanced intelligence-gathering machine ever!

And so while all his friends futsted away their lives on websites that showcase videos of people getting hit in the crotch, Mr. Haggard tapped contacts with an old government Y2K readiness outfit and ended up in the CIA information technology division.

And sure, fair enough, it has not been perfect. No man swims through life having all his expectations met without question. Certainly not Tom. That’s for sure. True, given the sacrifice of moving into the bitterly cold, socially hostile Washington D.C. area after a lifetime of the comfortable living in San Francisco did give him a second of pause before taking the position. And true, he did console himself with the assured faith that his job would result in the height of technological challenge when in fact all he does is make sure email services are running, and that the proper emails are removed when needed, and that all emails with the words “Arab” and “evildoer” have a checkmark next to them and looking up names on goggle sometimes.

Not that Thomas Haggard would ever complain about something like that. I mean, there are no small parts in the fight for democracy. It does, after all, get him in contact with various special agents the world over, and the supreme privilege of personally darkening what are clearly bias statements as to the nature of the interrogation, funding and the supposed failings of what will remain unspecified American efforts within Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistani, Singapore, Malaysia, southern India, north Korea, France, Kenya, Russia and Uzbekistan. And after all, if not for the unselfish, often tedious, to weaker heart assonates of his perhaps even seriously morally questionable behavior over the course of these 4…no…I believe it is 5, years that after all this time and effort and constant, mindless placating to these people that clearly have no real experience doing anything more technical then working an atm machine, that after all this, umm, this stupid, uhhh….

I’m sorry, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Night of the Living Hiphop

cus yo…

fa REAL fa real?

’round my corner round corners don’t exist because ultimately everything breaks down to straight lines and right angles; it’s all just blocks, yo.

And if enough black spray hancocks rock the sunny side of the 24^th street bodega then how the fuck do you know they didn’t paint it black in the first place, Yo?

Niggas been time traveling since flash masters mashed needle tips to plastic. Matched cadences, and broke genres. Break bound needles pin floors with thread bare sullies and spin the earth backwards. Dancers trance-like bounce half-dazed; mad-blazed off a stranger’s rolled ganja.

Mcs gasp like they swallowed all scrabble tiles and hide breathes inside the DJ scratches. Steady teasing the slightly eastern baseline, he cuts the highs by 25%, and turns turntable 2 ¾ back. He never finished high school.

In the Overground clear channel rocks romanoff reborn when Jesus Walks. Geniuses spit about clashing liquid swords that make black star flashes. Fascists in Eastern Europe are protested to a beat grown in Brooklyn. Now tell me what is dead?

Words be murdering foes like swing slapped loose cunt in New Orleans.

Before art house quartets with nastiness jazz be just poor mixed asses grinding to drums smuggled in stomachs and split into 8ths. Hollaback nigs wrapped neat sax trills since the 50s. Call Ghostface’s mouth Coltraine’s spit valve ‘cus when the sound of music was sampled the streets where watching. A letter

to those who left lamenting the death of the art of the life outside their window:

Write often. Send postcards. The ghetto misses your bitch ass and your motherland is so fat…

__________

A poem made back in 2006. 2006 was a good year for hiphop. Common smashed with his come-back album “Be”, Clipse and T.I. were burning up the radios with twin killas, Luda show huge growth through his “Release Therapy,” Lupe release his first record to critcal acclaim and the Roots showed they aint’ too good for sampling with the “Game Theory.” That’s not even touching Jay’s return, P. Diddy’s dance record, Ghostface’s solid Fishscale or the boom in instrumental hip-hop albums lead by Madlib and the late great Dilla. And yet, go into any black slam and all you heard was how hip-hop was dead, how rappers were an abomination, and how generally fucked up “those” black men seemed to be. Go to a white slam, by the way, and to this day it will be stuffed with half-ass paradies of hip-hop and black slam artists with after show talk all about how sadly uncreative people who do “those types of poems” and “that type of hip-hop” tend to be, often with those very poets standing in front of them.

This piece was my attempt to speak to the inspiration hip-hop has been to me. Hip-hop has and continues to inform my work through it’s base of unique aesthetics and aits long, diverse history. It has and will always be a part of me and my writing (as well as most of the writers and poets who tend to bad mouth it) and as long as that is true, shit ain’t going nowhere. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to listen to some Lil’ Wayne. Peace.

Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #1

This is a story I put together a couple weeks ago for a contest by nycmidnight. In it, contestants were challenged to make a story of 2500 word or less about a random topic in 10 days. In my case, the topic was a spy story about a one night stand. No word on the results, but I’m satified with what I made. It comes in four parts. Let me know what you think.

__________________

 Thomas Arnold Haggard is well aware of the appropriateness of his name and is not at all amused.

He doesn’t see the need to bother with vague acknowledgments of empty gestures, regardless of your supposed intent.

That passing stewardess, for instance.

Sure, weaker, naïver 43 year olds may have simply laughed off that (very subtle) stroke she gave to Thomas Haggard’s belly as she released his rich dinner plate of beef Wellington, stewed sweet potato dollops and streamed greens all soaked in thick red wine and peppercorn gravy.

Other dejected 40-something associates of his surely would have indulged in some ridiculously, degrading illusion that the slow drag of that young supple train attendant’s finger across their respective, rotund stomachs was purposeful in some way, that perhaps even what is CLEARLY just a…. an… innocent moistening of the corner of her mouth almost directly afterwards in some way illustrating some, some lewd act that she was inviting that respective associate to participate in…or…something.

Well, not Tom Haggard.

Tom Haggard is nobody’s fool.

I mean look at him!

That hardened second chin, fat and red like a proud cock’s giblet. His solid, Hitchcockian torso, wrapped so delicately neck to ankle in thick, black, breathable wool. An unassuming tweed jacket bowing graceful to his prominent middle; his chest lit softly by the laptop balanced to the left of his dinner, on top of a budging folder of important, classified documents, underneath his hacked iphone, and wedged beside a signed hardback copy of “300: the Novelization”.

Clearly this was a man who would not be distracted by this random, buxom stranger that has slowly waded past his isle for the fourth time now, who has 3 unfastened buttons (surely due to the heat) below the nape on her constricted uniform, who’s name is Nadia I have been told and who comes from the a city in eastern Russia around which much of Mr. Haggard’s research work has been centered, and who happens to be stopping over in Amsterdam as well and who has a tattoo of kitty on her back.

Tom has never been to Amsterdam. He has, surely, heard of Amsterdam, heard much in fact. You could say, I suppose, that Thomas Haggard knows intimately of Amsterdam actually, given the number of afterwork happy hour stories he had to suffer though in the drug obsessed underbelly of Silicon Valley’s old guard. Many were the friends who after rising to new stratospheres of wealth at the height of the web 2.0 years, took time off to pursue such pathetic diversions as drum and bass djing, massage therapy, mushroom cultivate or, at worst, travel. Thankfully, Thomas found a more honorable, more American path long before his college mates start wasting there live on the molestation dens they call the social networking revolution. These were just mindless diversions compared the true calling of the computer elite: government intelligence.

In the Field: Termites, Genies and Gentrification

In this addition of In the Field, a review of Mite We?, a puppet production on West Philadelphia gentrification. Put on by the prolific Puppet Uprising Drama group right on home at the Rotunda. Check it out here.

The Hot Lines: Let America Be America Again (By Langston Hughes)

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek–
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean–
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today–O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home–
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay–
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again–
The land that never has been yet–
And yet must be–the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine–the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME–
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose–
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath–
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain–
All, all the stretch of these great green states–
And make America again!

________

A very modern sentement from the classic American poet Langston Hughes, who’s birthday just past this past Friday., February 1st.

The struggle for what it means to be an American and the combined struggle of American people is becoming a common conversation point lately. In some ways it is depressing that so many years after Mr. Hughes wrote “I, too Sing of America”the question of the personhood and worth of African-American and immegent lives is still called into question. Still we are left with the assumption, on all sides of the debate, that American = white, civilized = white or that intergation into society = becoming white (never minding the illogical jump of Jews, Irishmen, former serfs and even Arabs at times into the club of whiteness)

With hope, by honoring and discussing the issues Mr. Hughes and others who pushed the ideals of the American experiment to it’s logical, justice-for-all conclusions, we will in time have the courage to work towards letting America truly be America once again.

Wordsworth: Sooooo Inapproprate

In thanks to the nod from my sis up in ny, the irrepressible  Sydette Harry (spelled it right and everything boo ) a repost of my contribute to her Carnival of radical action from a month or so ago. Do head over if you have not checked out her blog “Having read the fine print…” It’s ggooooddd readin’

________

Inappropriate.

It is a word I hear all too often walking down the tree line alleys of an average Ivy League veranda, but I can’t really judge I guest.

It comes in those chance snippets of conversation you laugh at with friends when there is a lull in your own equally wack-out conversations while walking in a bubble of interest down a tree line alleyway of an average Ivy League veranda.

I heard one just tonight. It was an undergrad towards west philly with friends and said suddenly, “And then he killed his girlfriend.”

Now these moments are isolated from context, and thus any number of interpretations can be made and thrown away again. Was she leaving a nearby movie theatre? Lit students critiquing a classmate’s short story? A news clipping?

It is on this unsure ground I ponder the many times and many contexts I have heard the word “inappropriate.” I can’t say for sure it is justified or not. Surely there are some things are legitimately inappropriate for conversation between friends. I’m sure most people can think of many. As with conversations about race, government policy and moral stances there are no unbias positions.

Still, considering the circumstances, you have to admit the situation is at least ironic. I mean this is the University of Pennsylvania I’m talking about, the oldest of Ivy League schools and the first liberal arts university in the country. This is a place where the best young minds of the world congregate to study the most advance branches of every field of study. The liberals here are the most liberal. The intellectuals most likely to think themselves evolved beyond religious, culture, or national confines. There are no boundaries, moral or otherwise, that cannot be pushed and the only word that means anything is your own. In such a place that prides itself on being the birthplace of progress, why are so many things called on impulse “inappropriate?” In a world beyond culture, why are so many things culturally taboo?

I will give an example.

There is was a freshman I will call Josh I was fond of walking with me through a division between engineering buildings. He was a sincere smartass with flair for Python coding. I was a second year senor at the time and known by the underclassmen for my teaching. He was a student in the class I taed. Somehow our conversation turned from comp sci to politics, as these conversations tend. More pointedly, we where talking about capitalism.

And Josh said:
“Well, I don’t know, I consider myself a libertarian when it comes to those kinds of things. Most geeks do. Why restrict the market? Let people work for there money.”

I said:
“I feel you, but I fear libertarian’s fight against regulation. I mean, in theory you have to make better things to get better profits, but without guidelines isn’t it in companies best interest to crush competition, use as little labor as cheaply as possible and make cheap products.”

Josh said:
“Come on, Warren. They wouldn’t do that because that it not in the interest of their customers.”

I said:
“Welcome to capitalism, dude.”

And then there was a change in Josh. Confident as he was, I saw instantly in his eyes a mark of strain. He paused and looked at me and said:
“Well, it certainly could be much worst in other countries so I guess we can just be glad for that.”

And then I paused, just as surprised at the response, and said:
“Well, that’s true, Josh but despite that, as citizens I think it is our duty to challenge our ideas and push things forward.”

To which he said:
“I really don’t think you should say things like that.”

And then he looked around as if waiting for swat members to crash in through the plate glass of the engineering quad.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Another example:

Lauren Hill recently made a performance at a Christmas celebration by the Vatican. Before starting, she stood in front of the crowd, took the mic in hand, wave off the accompaniment and said the follow:

I did not come here to celebrate the birth of Christ with you but to ask you why you are not in mourning for his death inside this place? …God has been a witness to the corruption of his leadership, of the exploitation and abuses by the clergy.

Now most of the crowd did not speak English (though they could apparently sing Ex-factor word for word). But for those that got word through translators and certainly for the press reporting, the comments where none too welcome. Most articles responded negatively to Hill’s comments, one even saying that she made and “ass of herself.” The Vatican’s response?

It was in poor taste and very bad mannered.

Bad-mannered.

Now, I understand the arguments that she should not have accepted the initiation if she did not agree with the promoters. I personally think that if you want to truly stand for something and not simply preach to the choir, you are going to have to do some things people don’t like. But that is just my opinion.

My question to all this is, with all the negative press, why wasn’t the substance of the comments ever mentioned? Why is it sudden in such poor taste to put yourself in a compromising situation and speak a truth that no one once to hear? Wasn’t it just this kind of “poor taste” that got Jesus crucified in the first place?

This essay is supposed to be about radicalism. It’s definition and the point at which one turns from a passive observer to an active participate in change. And this is a difficult question for me. I am never really sure how much is “active” and at what point one is truly radical. Though looking back on my record of service to my community I am satisfied that I at least tried, one never knows really how much is enough. In particular as a member of the poetry community, there are always those that sacrifice that much more.

Perhaps though, truly living a “radical” life mean more then a token canvaing job for greenpeace. Regardless of a group political affiliation, I see among my generation a people paralyzed by fear. Fear of being alone, and fear of being uncomfortable and above all, and most sadly, fear of being wrong. After a lifetime be being told they are that most perfect and precise snowflake, through into a world full of injustices devoid of easy solutions, too often I find my peers, and at time myself, simple going with the flow of things in those little times when we should have been the inappropate one.

And I am not talking about the meaningless shock of that one guy among men who has the “courage” to say that women are just not that smart sometimes. Nor the “courage” to put down a black teen from the neighborhood that has done nothing and said nothing to you for sake of a laugh between friends. That is the just the opposite. It is a statement made for ego and not for truth. Such statements are just assumptions based on nothing often with the full knowledge that there are many examples suggesting otherwise.

No, when I speak of baring witness to a inappropate truth, ingrained in that is that is a position separate for ego, separate from emotion, separate even from being an absolute. It is an idea born from your experience. It is limited in the way all experiences can ever be are and yet, it is true, in that way that all lifes  birth a perspective that must be acknowledges and excepted on it’s on terms. It may be wrong, it may be adjusted over time but it is yours. And I for one believe that the most beautiful of ideas in the American experiment is that that here, all truths can and must be acknowledged. That this is a right, not just of Americans, but all humanity.

And this idea, living by this principle in and of itself is hard. It is so easy to be apathic. While I am saddened by how much many I know, many with strong social consciences, do whatever they can be non-confrontation, I agree that is makes one feel alone sometimes. Sometimes you really do which you could just believe that 2+2=5. Still, despite the seemingly inchangible state of our society, there has and continues to be examples of cultures that encouraged discussion and progress.

In the rabbic texts, rival schools of thought wrote extensively on the wording of the law, each trying to come to a position most in line with the thought of God. Some gained wider acceptance and some stayed niche. Interestingly though, despite wildly diverge viewpoints all schools where respected.

Islamic Emmons are said to be interpreters of the word, a guide through time taking the ancient words of the holy Koran and weaving them into a practice in line with the current era. Often this required drastic rethinking of older interpretations. Yet, even when working with the word of God, it was acknowledged that things much be seen in own context.

Our own construction even, despite the word of strict interpreters, was built for change. Say what you want about the motives and compromises of our founding fathers, but it is clear they saw that despite there own high status things are never fixed in an ideal position. Why else the means to add amendments to the governments central textbook? Why else a system built to insure a balance between federal and local powers? Clearly, early civil servants saw our country as something would evolve over time. Clearly, they saw our nation as something that would change.

And how we have changed. How this change has accelerated. You are reading the words of the son of cattle, beamed through media beyond of hold of country, or corporation, beyond time and space. Millions can link to it, disagree with it or comment to it directly. As never before, millions can meet, discuss, fight and learn with each in ways never before available to the human species.

In no other time has the world been so small.

In no other time has the common man be in touch with the thoughts of others.

Never has the citizen had so much power.

And thus, never has then been more fear of the collective responsibility this brings.

I don’t know what comes next. I read my multiple RSS feeds at work just like anyone and feel just as helpless. You do your little contributions to moveon.org and move on with the rest of your day. You dream of leading a coup and put Motorcycle Diaries on your netflik’s queue but ultimately you still have to go to work. Got to pay those loans. Got to live that life.

But I do know that no matter what tools we currently have, they mean nothing if we do not believe in ourselves. All the technology in the world will do nothing if the big questions of western society: the supposed infallible of the stock market, the continued legacy of slavery and other histories of oppression, the connectedness of humanity as a species and our responsible to each other and the world, as long as honest talk on this question is inappropate what real use is there so called radical action?

So in lue of a personal army, I am just trying work on myself. To always be honest in world where it is assumed our leaders lie and we just swallow it. To be vocally outraged when a racist comment and to say so even if I may be making an assumption myself. And more importantly maybe, to be honest when I am called on that assumption, to make my peace other perspective and use my mistake to grow.

Perhaps the greatest courage comes not in the face of a tank rolled down our neighborhood throughway but in the face the common ignorance of friends, workmates and of our own minds.

Perhaps the greatest effort comes, not in changing the world, but changing ourselves.

like this

There was a boy who worked so hard.
He fixed the all doors, cleaned all the floors.
He threw balls while scrubbing walls while racing up and down the street.
—-
And every day his mom would note:
“Son it’s ok, rest for today.”
But shake his head, “Prefer,” he said, “to finish before I sleep.”
—-
And days and weeks and months he moved,
Plaied every game, fixed every food,
Read every book, sung every song and then he found one more.
—-
Until, while trying every chair,
—
He settled on a seat of air
—
Perfectly firm and smooth and their he fell into a snore.
–
So deep, his dream, it started with the blackness of eyes
—
It startled him to be so still, so he saw white in surprise.
—
Then all the colors flashed in kind
until the boy saw dots and lines,
—
two circles eyelike, nose and chin, a voice that sounded just like him
a simple room he stood within and letters that spelled out what he cried,
“It’s me,” he said, “from the outside!”
—-
He shut his eyes and wished for home, opened them scared…and he was there.
—-
That’s when he knew it was a dream that he was trapped within.
—-
“Hey, maybe here,” he thought, “I can dream of all I wish to do.”
—-
So dream he did, up all his friends, he dreamed his street and mom and then
He dreamed of all the things he did and things he didn’t yet.
—
He dreamed of many far off lands, of songs he heard and one’s he planned.
—
Dreamed all the great things he could eat and dreamed that bad things tasted sweet.
—
And dreamed up villians full of fear and with a wish they’re eyes would clear,
they’d turn and smile, remember him and join along to play.
—

New worlds and moons and stars he dreamed while looking at the night.
—
And then he dreamed of sun and saw it rise and there was light.
—
And every person that he saw, he dreamed they knew them, one and all
But try as he might, he couldn’t dream a person just like him.
—
So finally, with so much done, he dreamed that familiar chair,
—
He remembered it so clear, the room around it reappeared.
—
And with his dream mom at his side, he waved his dream friends all goodbye
And remmbered all of his fun and all the things he dreamed he done
—
All the way back to black and white and dreamed the chair from that one night
Let go of sight and sound and touch and color, taste and thought and place
—
‘till slowly out of the dream he finally rose.
—
He moved his feet and felt his face and moved inside his clothes.
—
yawned satified with his long trip and wondered what to do,
—
but couldn’t think of anything, cus everything was through.
—
Mom said, “Finally! You were out deep! Where did you go when while you where sleep?”
—
He look around
and then at her
and tried to say the things he made,
—
But couldn’t get the color right
or anyone he dreamed that night exactly, or the worlds he saw
or shapes he drew or songs he called
—
At best he just could see the end,
when all the dreams came back again
And that his mom and street was there,
And friends were too and things he’d do
—-
So with a smile he breathed a sign
and licked his lips and said,
—
“I dreamed a place
that’s just like this
was all inside my head.”
_______

My first attempt at a children’s story, kind of a matrix lite type thing. It actually came to me on waking from a disturbing dream that I can’t remember anymore.  It had something to do with childhood though and was definitely dense enough to make me question reality for a minute. It made we wonder what it was like for a child to discover and remember the dream for the first time, and further if there is a responsibility for adult help kids make sense of this world (assuming we got a handle on that shit our damn selves of course) I have ideas for illustrations…but this may be a back burner for a little while….that is unless someone out there in the internets got some time for a collaboration

Monday Morning

pace is the thing, I think
to hold tap water in your palm
and lap it up in tender flicks
for fear of future drought.

how love shapes forms that once
needed neither name nor distinction.

a word once made of sound: an object
and truth no longer is enough.

it turns my stomach not to touch her
and yet at last I roll from bed
and take a final sip of coffee
leave her asleep, unkissed, behind.

I’m walking somehow unattached
the blocks away from where I work.

the morning sun within my eye

the weight of clothes I’ve lived
without.
_________

nuf said…

Bag Serials: Adam #5

“So how many we got today.”

“Slim pickens this time, mate. Just the one; and a little bugger at that. But it’s more paws for pickin, I guess.”

“Hmmm…that surprising considering how lush this area is. I will have to make a note of that. He seems pretty quiet back there.”

“Had to tranq ‘em. Three darts. Had the crazy eye, that one; all smeared with berry juice and shit like some kind of flower child. Just stared me down at first, too, up on his hunches, all calm… it was creepy mate. And he just went off after the first dart. Ran head long for me.”

“Wow. Quiet a find.”

“Maybe we can get more then usual for the brains, Eh? Most expensive part, you know. Used in some kind of chang chong healing potion or something.”

“Hey hey, no insulting of our costumers now.”

Clang

“Ah ha, here we go.”

Clang
Clang
“Want me to end it.”

“No, let him enjoy the ride. He’ll get the point soon enough. Hey! How’s junior?”

“Typical two year old. Eyes full of stars. Always exploring. ’slike he just touched down from space.”

Clang