the sores on the heels of the Youth.

the sores on the heels of the Youth.
//kasumisuto

the dust and heat of the desert road
confers precious little but aggravation to
the sores on the heels of the Youth,
born of comforts lost, raised in promises
now forlorn in the wisps of naiveté,

who come through these parts,
treading the steps, the giant prints of
dinosaurs and mammoths, the tails of comets,
of those larger-than conquistadors and
crusaders, torrents of blood in their wake.

the glorious bells and duplicitous whispers
of imperialists clamoring in the foggy distance,
the moist air unseen but through the scored
lens of the Tongue and clasp of the Eye.
parched to the brain, scraping on, but why.

oh but why, the guttural cry of the human youth,
living as the animal, the once-denied truth now
magnificently exploited as caste, the law of
animal demarcated through the post-darwinian imprint:
the sores on the heels of the Youth.

voices strained to dissolution, words lost in the
hollow, abandoned even by the law of gravity
living as the weightless gargantuan unable to
feed voraciously on the organs of righteous opinion
starving instead on the paltry maxim: Capital is Mass.


"Those with the darkest fears became the most powerful."

fortune cookie
//dav/mkknyr//

to transcend from nebulous malaise
requires dramatic transformation
purging thick sinewed marrow in the blaze

a dark blue light hums songs of heavy glaze
melodies of deterioration
to transcend from nebulous malaise

out among the many heads, counting strays
few steps from outright intoxication
purging thick sinewed marrow in the blaze

sparks strewn wayside, to collect them we graze
intrepid in fields of inspiration
to transcend from nebulous malaise

ingesting this brightness, deep in the maize
rejoicing swells into exaltation
purging thick sinewed marrow in the blaze

harken to the blue sky clear cries of praise
our inevitable sublimation,
to transcend from nebulous malaise
purging thick sinewed marrow in the blaze

apricot nectarine.
//dav.mkknyr/

she was apricot nectarine
gum-toothed, quietly laughing
to herself at divinity around the
           corner.
now giggling, from the knot in her throat
now, again, swallowed into silence.

mkkmtk

yr name reminds me of
a wooden box

it is a crate,
with planks nailed
one over the other

blue and red paint
sprayed letters
on the outside of
the crate are
bold but alien

the weight of the words
dense unwieldy words
the points of each letter
sharp to the touch
what kind of paint is this?

my hands do not bleed
when i lift the crate
but they do burn
with the softness of
my hands on
yr back

there is nothing
in the crate worth
buying selling trading

because the only value
the object has is
linked to the obscurity
of it remaining
inside the crate

the mystery of the object
is its own essence,
it is desire

my hands stop burning
but my blood gets
thinner, runs slower

thinner like the water
that runs from yr
11th story sink
when compared to

the ocean water
thick with salt
and slippery with algae

slower like driving behind
a meandering tourbus
not even knowing that
i've driven too far

i've driven too far
i've driven too far.

onlylovers
//mkknyr

only lovers
sit on the grass to
sift for four-leafed clovers
together.

wer hat die Pille für mich?
//dav/mkk/nyr

a whooping and a coughing
sounded from m. barley macarthur's corner
the lung-tearing rib-shaking
cough resounded through the hall

m. barley macarthur's shoulders quivered with
hurt as he swallowed the phlegm
wiping the sweat from his bald&gray
scalp with his sweatshirt sleeve

he knew he put those pills somewhere
but he had checked all his pockets
and under his chair
did he leave them in the bathroom?

and there in the sink it was
the bottle but capless and spilt
lying wet in the basin
one white pill dissolving by the hole

he eyed himself in the mirror
panicked ashen mouth set
in a stiff dry grimace
this would never have happened

if p. karen macarthur were still alive
no
she would have thought it all out
and this, this now, wouldn't have been

but it was
and m. barley macarthur would just have to
shake and shiver and stutter himself
to some german doctor and explain

all by himself.

Victor
(sad and quiet)
Riding on the wings,
Feathers black to hide the stars,
Hunters shooting into their darkest visions
The nightly toil to conceal their scars.

Sumitra
Are you imagining it happening?

Victor
Yes.

Sumitra
Then, why isn’t it happening right now?

yes prototype.

yes
prototype
fuck
prototype
i
prototype
fuck
prototype
around
prototype
with
prototype
my
prototype
own
prototype
head
prototype
like
prototype
that
prototype
fuck

Intimacy After Countless Disparate Endeavors.
david//mcnayr


calico twins.
presence and curiosity,
calico twins giving
eskimo kisses
inside the amnion
sister, your whiskers,
your arching back,
my paws cleaning your ears
will the light first hit your eyes or mine?



posing closeness.
her one hand brushing me with
rouge and pale powder
when was the last time
fingers held against my lips,
not just your's, but anyone's?

can i pretend there is more
than just you holding a
camera, modeling with
my hands on your legs,
touching our noses
kisses on the forehead,
just poses for metered
choreographed expression.



no small talk.
his hands brush my forehead
sweep the back of my neck
his fingertips tip my jaw to the side
and hold down my ears away from

the blades, few other strangers
could become so closely acquainted
handling me with such propriety

my hair, three months long
he collects with a broom
from the tile and whisks it
into the garbage can.



tête-à-tête.
it was nightfall when first
we pressed our faces
against the pane of glass
crafted with slight warps
and chipped over the years,

you on one side
yellow street lamps
crowned your dark hair
a curtain over the wavering
glint of your eyes

me on the other,
and as i tried to whisper,
the warm breathy fog
obscured your face, so i
drew a few words in it,

backwards so you could read.
can you read it back to me?


..lovesliescrushing..
if we were to have met
when both our heads
were drifting behind
starry-eyed sleep

a picnic on the rings
of saturn, rendezvous
in the clouds, invisible
wings floating breath.

if we were to have met
where both our hearts
were slowing to keep
in time with each other

a tranquil river, baths
of understanding, never
teetering on the edge
holding nothing underwater.

if we were to have met
how two are meant to,
making meals to share
perpetual affectionate renewal

there wouldn't have been
such a lock on the center
of our apparent connection,
hidden from grasp.



verizon longing: ill b thinkng of u <3.
to J--- Sep 25, 10:12 am
really wish i wuldve hrd frm u lst nite
memories of u still ovrwhlm me
when i let them catch up 2 me.
how’s yr hand doing?
i wish y’d leave th walls alone.

frm J--- Sep 25, 7:19 pm
im not ignorng u but
its all so bad for me
rite now.

erratic 4 days
barely restng

i shuldv nown betr
nnow its all very messy.

i think of you--
fondly ofcorse,
but also qyt frankly
w/ a sense of profound
sadness, wich
4 wotevr reason

has me feelng trubld.
i wl cal u thisPM 2 takk.

PS
my knuckls r bruisd;
also i smackd the
(granite) countr
dayb4 ystrday
&my wrists r blk&blu;

hurts way worse than
the wall punch.
fuckng poor shape
ur sweet 2ask.

Three Alliterative Exercises

"inheritance."
//david mcnayr

heart attack, folded into sheets
holding fingers with fingers,
sorting through hundreds of thousands
of faint, pale storybooks
hardly seeming to fill the empty
spaces between the walls
filing away several crossed throughways
the stuffy heat of the attic
the heavy musk of the cellar
thick dust over covered furniture
echoed footsteps shuffling through the hallways.

"christmas after roast beef."
//david mcnayr

dry bread, tacky golden and pink
princess outfit, dress up cook
baking and clacking around
the kitchen, feet too small
for grandma's tall heels,
dragging her cane across the plastic tiles
as she dozes waiting for the buzzer.

"snap crackle pop."
//david mcnayr

license to kill small game
mice milling in the walls
munching on little morsels of
motel pillow mints:
modern rodent medicine
laced with pellets of
permanent painkillers.

"where are you from by the way?"
//david mcnayr

pillar in the crowd
coming down the escalator
we step on the shuttle
gawking silently
it's finally you

our wet bare skin
drawing stares, holding hands
as we jump off the bridge
the boats' oil, a film on the
surface, don't swallow

september 9
like driving under water
such an urge to open you
like an umbrella
please keep me dry

september 16
methamphetamines
no more fucking lies
do you ever get lost
looking at pictures of yourself?

incoherent dynamite
talking to a wall
turn around and
yr fiery eyes consuming
my world of illusion

salvation salvation
photographing you
through the bathroom mirror
y'r amazed at how
steady my hand is

"rigor mortis."
//david mcnayr

tastes like chalk
dust under my tongue
fingerprints on my eyelids
dirt under my toenails

seeds of grass
in rows of sod
up and down
my cardiac muscles

little hungry worms
salivating in my marrow
gnashing eyeless needles
until all is hollow

and even as i crumble
there tread steps above
i can only guess
belong to you

my lungs gasp
for one last breath
with an elegiac rattle
i cannot cry out:

tell me tell me tell me
just try to tell me
what what what
you needed

i thought i thought i thought i
don't know what i thought i
could could could
do for you

soil fills my cavities as
i hum a short tune
i hum it again
i hum it one last time.

----------------------------
Addendum:

"gatten's intimacy."

not between
lovers or friends
but the warmblooded

"bvt to nyc. one fourteen oh seven."

mountains curving like Joshua
Bell's violin, without corners
or points, a perfect 8,
vibrations to ∞, only with
a healthier waist line

a filter of trees
rags amputated from the orb
a thin blanket of steam
from every field in the golden glaze

winter's ivy,
strong yet unadorned,
berries frozen and
blackened, reach straight
up, curled arms
to anchor at every
present juncture.

vines think
they're powerlines.

"a new way out."
//david mcnayr

naked and scrubbing
the morning variety of
pissing in the shower.
drying off with a
small wet blue towel.
i begin to dress.
a shave so rare.

wash the hair down the sink
lose my ring, the only one
i ever wore and i chase after it
with my fingernail clippings
mouthwash and saliva.
excited, i stuff a few socks
down there too, but
soon water begins to
spill over the edge.

damn, i thought i might
be able to wash
all of myself
down the
tiny
dr-
ai-
n

h
o
l
e

"L.S.D. : then and now"
//david mcnayr

Los Angeles.
San Francisco and
Diego. 1968-1972.

Then: sitting on the dock
a spineful of acid causing
him to stutter and bite
the already beat up nubs
of his fingernails
his cuticles crusty
like the scabs of salt
lined up along the tide
precipitated from an
unrelenting sea of
violence to prevent
violence to prevent
violence...

Lecturer with tenure.
State College in
Delaware. 1986-present.

Now: defeated and numb
after a day of bitter
ramblings to stoned youngsters
he goes back home
runs a fresh hot bath
soaks his body
staring at the ceiling
where the mildew resembles
a retro flower print
and the appetizing mustard color
catalyzes a flashback from
a state-sponsored outlet to prevent
radical dock-sitting idealism to prevent
violence to prevent violence to prevent...

"long trail."
//david mcnayr

returning to the bank of the river
father waiting heating up
the butane stove texas chili,
two men and one woman
québécois muffled between
snapping broken twigs,
rustling leaves, chickadee songs.

one of them keeps a small guitar
wrapped in styrofoam and cardboard
but there is no music.
they only string up lines
of laundry, from the cabin
to the nearby tree trunks
and play a few card games.

my father's snores, lying
on the thin polystyrene mat
over the uneven planks,
make for uneasy slumber;
but how thankful i am
awake at the rising dawn
the pale soft light against

the french woman's back
changing into her day clothes
the liberty of her narrowing waist
and gracious modesty of her breasts
tucked under her hands
facing the cabin wall
no more reason to sleep.

"shoes over water"
//david mcnayr

and so there i hung, swung by my ankles
postulating like a pendulum, back and forth
as to how i may cut loose.

my face, inches from the body
the misty curves and ripples held
tight in the crusted skin of ice
over the formless water
so thin i could melt it
with a single soft breath
through my O-shaped lips.

but it would freeze
right back up as i
inhaled: the thinnest sheet.

and so there i swung, hung by my ankles
hypnotizing the fish below, back and forth
gathering glittering eyes.

my lips, tired from blowing
like an afternoon spent buzzing
too hard through a trumpet
yielded duty to the tongue
dangling its tip in the water
for the fish to come nibble at
with tiny tickling incisors.

but a blue whale hungry for guppies
lunged up and over me, cutting me
loose: empty shoes only hanging.

“what would you call me?”
//david mcnayr

what would you call me
if, on one cordial Sunday,
sinking into cushions,
pulling a cat hair off my tongue,
the tube reflecting blue, green,
red in my eyes,
I left town for a while?

if I skipped out for a spell,
put on my thick leather boots,
my old army helmet, a little dented,
a 1967 cigarette hole,
a bayonet scratch or two,
and some clean underwear,
picked up a tank at the local
armory and took I-95 to Washington,
just for a little attention?

would you call me desperate?
or would you call me sergeant?

heir to the throne.
//david mcnayr


David, young shepherd
Away from his flock

Stands facing the giant,
That demoralizing philistine,
That primitive beast, bred to
Crush under toes and heel.
Hairy thunderous thighs,
A thick shrubby nest
Of a beard, goat leg bones
Caught in his mustache
Stored to dry and whittle,
To pick the blood sausage
From in between boulder molars.

Large stone towers,
Smooth white alabaster
With beacons of flame
And gold-leaf’d domes.
Paper-pushing clerks
Under councilmen
Under governors,
Officers and advisors,
Under princes, and
Under king and queen,
The giant is sworn to
Defend all that one can see,
Civility and decency.

The stone tower crumbles under
One smooth, well-aimed pebble.

"a mess worth making."
//david mcnayr

a modest fortune of small change,
values and presidential likeness
smudgd over by cinders
in a japanese sushi dish ash tray;
he lies supinely in my bed,
on the blankets, never under,
and when i go out of the room,
i can hear him rustling,
rolling a cigarette, shavings of tobacco
spilling out from either end of the
gummed papers into my sheets,
my pillow case, my bedside water glass.

i stand outside the door
and listen to his tongue
running over and over,
his fingers twisting knots,
twirling his opposable digits,
the ones that built the pyramids
and the panama canal
and one or two of the space shuttles.

i imagine standing
in front of the mirror tomorrow
morning, little brown slivers
of turkish and blended
stuck with sleepy dried sweat
in my eyelashes, mustache,
and mixed in with the dandruff,
especially problematic between
december and mid-march.

i imagine going into my bedroom
with a stick of red lipstick,
a can of purple paint,
and a box of styrofoam
packing peanuts, saying
"if y'r going to make a mess,
make it a mess worth making."

but instead, i empty the
electric pencil sharpener into his shoes,
sitting in a puddle of melted snow
on the newspaper by the front door.
and i leave my cats sniffing the
graphite dust as i bring him
a steaming mug of green mountain
french roast, the ceramic glaze
seared with a single phantom
out of the kiln; he lights a match
and it sizzles as he puts it out
in the mug i hand him.

"what's that about?" i ask.
he drags slowly on the cigarette, saying
"there is no story here. it is only you and i."
the smoke curls up to the ceiling,
past my nose and unavoidably into my lungs.
many first-hand testimonials concerning
second-hand smoke would like to
paint me a victim but it shouldn’t
make much of a difference in the long run.
I don’t have many guests.

Everything Will
Turn Out The
Way You Want,
If You Stop
Doubting That
I Love You.

//by dave and joanne.

As if you were laying bricks,
Keep each one true;
Pursuit to the complete
State by complement.

benefits in kind.
//davdmcyr

Thomas Aquinas
became a saint on
a Wednesday afternoon.

On Monday morning,
he was jogging, shopping,
and his wrist watch stoppd ticking.

He didn't notice,
but it happened at the
same moment he stoppd
to tie his left shoe.

St. Aquinas didn't normally
prefer footwear with laces.
But on Mondays
his professional regimen requird
him to stretch beyond
his personal preferences.

Mondays are daisy days
at his local florist.

And he bought
three pink ones to get
three more orange ones
half off.

Three flowers for his
right-handed clergymen.
Three flowers for his
left-handed choir boys.
Those boys just liked pink.

Those men did not
very much like orange,
but they refrained from
speaking their minds
when St. Thomas was
in the room.

Sitting at a table
with three square edges
and one rounded one,
the elder clergymen
knew their place.

They each had their
own square edge,
and they knew
their corners separated them.

Thomas did not
become a saint for sitting
at a table with
one rounded edge.

When his watch stoppd
keeping up with the crystal quartz,
he knew he needed
more curves in his daily bread.

He wondered if
atomic clocks give
radiation poisoning.

On Tuesday
he skipped the florist
and went to the jewellers.

The jeweller always
makes faces when you
enter the shop merely
to replace a battery.

To save face,
Thomas Aquinas bought
three watches and three necklaces.

Three square clock-pieces
for his right handed clergymen.
Three discount silver medallions
for his lefthanded choir boys.

Those men did not
very much like their square watches,
because, honestly,
it betrayed their understanding
of God's infinity,
but they refrained from
speaking their minds
when St. Thomas brought them
their presents.

Those boys, though,
knew exactly how
to hang silver
around their supple necks.

Those mezzo-sopranos,
those sweet things,
didn't even turn green
with that cheap silver alloy
resting on their throats.

On Wednesday,
Thomas Aquinas bought
a new table to bring
to the office.

The table was circle,
but he specified a
geometric chord
to be removed,
squaring one side.

Sitting around the table
with his three elder clergymen,
he noticed how
this new dynamic
changed their conversations.

He took a step down,
as the new circumference
of the table took
one and one and one
and made Three.

The trinity became
a single spirit at
this new table.

He found humility
on this Wednesday
at the office.

Thomas Aquinas,
the patron saint
of geometry.

Thomas Aquinas,
the patron saint
of corporate benefits in kind.

tigmoni's strand.

please one morning
for simplicity
and one afternoon
for meditation
and one whole nite
for just rocking
back and forth in the grass
as sun becomes orange
becomes red
becomes moon.
one day or
never those things.
and one day for
always no things.

iced oolong.


the cold-whispering,
slow-wilting,
flower-flame.
still aglow.
still a-growing.

i feel we have nvr traded
or given any pieces
of ourselves unwilling.
the gravity of my feelings
to you has given me a
shield too strong.

i am increasingly
isolated in my head.
my life has become
skins of false colors.
i wear a cloak of a
blue sky with clouds and crows.

a light grows in me
and i am surprised
that when i speak,
my voice still
sounds the same.

godlike imaginings.

Nizamuddin.
//davdmcyr


My daughter hides her
face from sickness.

Whenever she leaves her
shoes at the door,
she leaves her rings,
pulled from her toes,
in her pockets,
sewn in secret
into her many pleated skirts.

No dust will remain
captured, pressed by the silver
after her dutiful heel-scrubbing.

When removed from
their sealed enclosures,
her hidden rings
will still glimmer
with a fresh film of polish.

Few but I
have seen her full face
and her toes jeweled
simultaneously.

Fresh flowers she dries;
wilted and hung flowers
she hides in Bibles
(holy books)
in hotels, libraries,
sanctuaries, hosts' desk drawers.

In each flower
she gracefully inks
her mother's last words:
"Child,
praise to transit at dusk."

Rachel's Birthday.


pounding on the windows.
LA LA LA.
los angeles.

asking me
telling.
i dont care golddigger.
get down.

it's been 18 years.
what happened 18 years ago?
rachel turned 2!
how many times to be reminded.

aint seeing like i used to.
i aint quite seeing like i used to.
white white white white white money.

1985. 1986. 1983. 1984?

holding hands under the table.
i shouldn't be embarrassed.
don't be surprised if i cry tonite.

merry, don't be crzy?
it's normal to be crzy.
touch me in my face.

if it's embarrassing
something bads gonna happen.

nothing happened.
but it felt warm.

but it felt warm.

ring the doorbell.

drink and dance more, ashley.
i finish things i start.
oh fine.
oh fine.
at least we'll have enough power.

a video with a greenbelt.

oh man.
please dont talk about greenscreens.
he's here? vince grows here.
vince grows in greenscreens.

is vince portable?
if they don't dance,
then they're no friends of mine.

BUT FUCKING WHO?

everyone looks.
everyone looks at their pillows?
everyone looks.
everyone looks at their sheet?
everyone looks.

don't show off.
oh dammit.

i should hang out in bedrooms more often.

how can you be bored with a house?
can you be bored with a house?
when will this house get boring?

is the 80s about finding what is and what isn't boring?
we're a generation trying to make an excuse for the 80s.

Steve Jobs knows how to say "FUCK"
Bill Gates sort of doesn't anymore.

he's mr. bill gates. "i used to be be be whisky and high fives."

stay away from me.
lets exit socially.

but we barely crossed paths.

where did this sexuality come from?
please get it all out of their bodies.
i'm not a busy network.

the british prison turned
into an american party.
welcome to the mexican.

Step 1) to lucid dreams. a dream journal.

here she comes. Week 1) Set 20-27

Sept 20: Dream 1) India. We are all loading in the van to leave. Sudhadnshu is driving the other 4 of us, are in the back and passenger seat. Ashley wants to go say goodbye to Saroj and this really large woman, Sarita, who is apparantly Ruchi and the groom's mother.I go out to hug Sarita. We kiss each other on each cheek. And things start to get emotional. I think I hear her say I love you, but then I definitely hear her say "I like you. I don't want you to leave, but I want to make sure you're a likely presidential candidate." We continue hugging. I look up over her shoulder and Bill Murray is standing right there. I think: is he considering me right now for role because of how emotional this is getting? Sarita picks me up off the ground and begins to lug me back to the van. I look back once more to Bill Murray, who has the same wondering look on his face, and then I look down at this young Asian girl in a cute black dress, and then up at the van, which has moved over on the grass a little. We get back, and Mohit is in the car. He starts laughing. DREAM END.

Sept 21: Dream 1) In Minnesota with my dad, wandering about this giant fountain that tails off in paths, each going to one different city. My dad's older sister was found in a cave near one of these fountains, and there was this old man wearing glasses who lives outside. We were giving him a wheelchair and then it was too big and it kept falling over, he kept landing flat on the ground and getting angry. My dad and I were headed to the fountain to navigate to another city to find him a better wheelchair, but it started raining and lightning. So I ran home to my apartment, and by the time I got back it was stopped, and everyone poured out into the street. This big party of British old people, who were all drinking beer, cautioned us to watch out as they backed their car from the driveway to the street, cuz they might be a little drunk. All these people, who were all eating something, turned into a line to get into this huge school, which was somehow also Ateaseweb. The way to get in was to pay the guards, which was like a ruling gang of badass kids, pay these punks some of your food. Apparently they like dishing out insults, but I stood my own ground and they let me in. my whole family was watching me trying to get in, and my sister and i looked beyond the entrance to this huge CGI wicker man sort of structure, and we got extremely excited like it was a lot bigger and different than the last time i was there. inside this school, every was digitized like a cartoon black and white drawing sitting at a table. it was like a library. as i walked in, i started to feel really weightless and happy, so i started dancing around the entire place. i thought "it's like a new year, i can sit with anyone and make new friends". this girl Leigh from my college picked up a big armchair and rushed to a computer to get it before anyone else. this place which was atease quickly turned into it being my school, and my friends carolyn and rachel and ashley all come out in their digital form, saying that we look good like cartoons. ashley says "no, i look really bad. look, i'm wearing all denim." i kind of snicker, because it's true. she does look really bad in all denim. DREAM END

in this dream, i remember the digital wicker man being different at another point, maybe tonite or maybe yesterday night (sept 20). also, i remember at the end wondering if this were a dream, and i think that's how i woke myself up at 5:30 in the morning to write all this. I also had a second dream i remembered when i woke up again at 10, but i forgot to write it down. now i have no clue.

Sept 22:
Dream 1)We were in an orchestral hall listening to some piece by Shostakovich. I was there with Chang and Carolyn and maybe Carolyn's dad and bf. I think I was there with Chang because he was teaching another Hacking/Bending class and we were doing some project for this orchestra hall. But Cathy Crane was in this orchestra as well. As the piece was playing I was getting into it, like hands and arms and everything. And someone yelled at me twice to stop conducting. After the piece was over, Carolyn and her boyfriend ran up to the second floor. You could here her giggling and squealing the whole way up. Then you could see them up in the top window start to make out real intensely. Carolyn's dad went to tell them they were very visible. And Chang said we could make a button on a remote that would close all the blind on these windows at once. I thought it was a good idea DREAM END

Sept 23/24: no new dreams

Becoming a Vegetarian.


didn't you feel it
the last time?
and didn't you
shake your sorry face?

didn't you feel anything
other than curiosity?
any ounce of emotional
self-preservation?

today i started
not eating meat.

and i learned that
my former self was
the type to walk into a room,
talk senselessly about obscurity,
and leave without making eye
contact with anyone.
except that hopeless mirror.

he started to waste away
when he stopped using his phone.
well, people truly stopped calling him.
and that's what did him in.

she.
i never got
to know her.
not like i wantd to.
not like i imagined she
would want someone to.

this is a good
place to start.

you used to help
victims. you used to
identify with them.
with anyone really,
because you sensed
a humanity in every eye.

but now, i can't help
but feel the deluge
of dusty bodies,
foggy souls, steamy breath
that could carry any word,
but only carries posture,
image,
and insincerity.

and he,
he'll just be
out on the porch
for my whole life.
i hope he likes weather.

and she.
goddammit,
what is she so afraid of?

you bought a few things
and only savored the change,
the spare dollars and coins
carrying hundreds of fingerprints.
that's the closest you'll ever get to
those people.

and i drew the perfect circle
with my eyes half-closed.
and swallowed it
before anyone could catch a glimpse.

he stopped to
mark the sidewalk.
she eyed him
too curiously.

our friendly fire.


pistol-pestled caffeine
dissolved in whiskey sodas,
off the rocks, too warm for ice,
just two clicking golf balls,
sunk in our johnny fastwalkers.
energized, our sunni caddies
and our ak-47s strung along,
let's take to the dunes.

"my tee, ahmad.
my titantium titleists,
sticky with whiskey.
my 6-iron, ahmad."

we all take our
first swing,
hands choked,
knees bent.

and it finally sinks in.
the way that whiskey
will turn from a gentle warmth
into a syrupy burn, singeing
the heart and lungs in
this dry heat.

this was all just a sand trap.

trout.


trout swimming up the river
dive deeper to the sunken
wreckage of dogs on the sandy floor.
silted incisors merged into the
river bed, the plaqued fibers of
decayed avian muscles,
digested fetal egg yolks.
in the caged security of ribs,
trout to make home.

trout swimming up the river
manuever to the surface,
to the lather of splashing,
launched into a frenzied
insect, gliding arachnid
feast on the edge of
asphyxiation. food, drink-breath
and orgiastic, wild-hearted breeding.
trout to make a mate.

trout swimming up the river
stay close under cover,
swollen with eggsacs and
a primal maternal ferocity.
Predatory teeth are longer,
sharper with a pregnant diagnosis.
flotsam as camouflage, drift
and pray for the second hour.
trout to make child.

trout swimming up the river
are peaked to attention, a glint
and a winged, hairy silhoutte
against solar refractions.
hypnotic, the rhythmic beckonings,
the pulsing bobs, the tantalizing
shape: signifying a promised taste.
beyond dream a rush to the bait,
and a steely punctured finish
through the lip
trout to make a meal.

STATION TO STATION:
the american accident.


cultivated individualistic.
skintight voracity
as dairy cattle
as the National Guard Mormons.

shakedown! overboard!
sonic boom nuclear family
with minimum public television.

rag doll rugby, undertaker.
minimum wage demotion.
botanical trickery.

vaporize.
eastbound as a concussion,
masculine retail-colored
self-absorbed vasectomy skit.

jackknife dreary charter members,
city hall sound bite:
drug addiction decline.

mother-in-law
rapport degradation
and inquiry tone-deaf.

yardstick about.
Sunday school: a self-evident
hit-or-miss steamroll,
keyhole liar, stride Highness.

duct and internal blown
broad-minded mixed marriage.
blur espouse: puppy love.

napalm mass with helplessness
depraved to extermination,
deign to the workstations.

lion.
second-rate HIV incubation
bloodthirsty gangster rubella
the pulse, an incurable allowance.

financial as Star-Spangled Banner.
tenancy fifteenth crusader,
stifling brute, spaced out gringo.

a learned United Kingdom,
genteel sedation, sedentary.
fortune kickoff cruise control.

production1.

doctoring a scab, squeezing blood from an echo
a mimicking friendless beneficiary.
reading words silently, oil on oak.
practicing free association,
lyrics in language of his home, her fantasy.

climacticly shapeless, underneath
sweating twisted teeth, neckless.
low lit, acrid child labor,
negligent mental energy.

internal slides, washing over
the present instruction.
dead like Beethoven
almost dramatic.

empty pulse.

pronouncing with the tongue
all turgid fibers, all blood haunts
the cavern resonating witless
conquest of regionless dearth.
scarcity strung over lines of
linen, snapping early in gales.
shuffling, we each held one
end, unraveling involuntarily,
rising kite flown by our two strings,
a wager on our lives in a field
of power lines and generating towers.

Chapter Four: the emergent policy.

as i left the estate,
tracking something illkempt, illcontent
from the house to the fresh mown lawn,
my mouth tasted morning close to sunset.
periodically, like a miscommunication,
my voice called me from the windows.

iron security crown, marble mossed and vined,
a refugee egression, expatriate in limbo.
checked out, strung down with plastic
bags of electric toewarmers, military surplus.

i had cold feet.
so i sat.

a shrouded bear, exuding
onions and nicotine from
his maw. and his claws,
one holding a paper bag
wrapped around a bottle,
the other behind his back.

gruffly to me, this homeless bear:

"look what i found,
after the storm
came through our town.
the fever crib building
burnt bridges to cities,
berg-choked rivers, infantile backstroke
cutting through the pressure floes.

the no-good aesthetes,
melancholy narcissists,
running tongue over teeth
gritty enamel self-loathing,
will find this world
to fit their design."

Manifesto for Posthumanist Digital Cinema

The human species sleeps, unaware.

A dangerous handful are watchful, awake, unrecognizably rearranging the chambers. They’ve taken samples of the sleeping. Hair, skin, blood. They’ve also installed many plugs in the room. We are all going to need them soon.

And a handful more are beginning to blearily recover, taking slow steps to realization of the immediate future:

Some of these are shocked, hazily doubting they’ve awaken. “Am I still dreaming? Is this a nightmare?” They may retreat comfortably back to social tensions so familiar in the back catalogue of the human experience. Or they might even begin counting their hairs, fighting for the ones that have been split from their heads to be returned. But time will move too fast for such scrutiny of petty individual comforts. For life will be reconstructed, whether or not those who pretend to hold the ability to resist evolution wildly reach out their arms, making motions that will soon be remembered as futility.

Still more of these stirring from slumber will wake with an enthusiastically scintillating notion of the very present. They will wonder what has kept them from waking earlier. They will rub the fog of dormancy from their eyes and feel swept up in the change they observe taking place before them. They look at their once-tired bodies and wonder. “How long has this ache been behind my eyes? It has been there long enough to distract me from progress. My hands are too weak to instill any significant change in today’s world. Maybe a few years ago, when hands were used for things like that. Some have been busy though while I was gone. And in that direction, I must refocus. And I might regain something as well. At least I feel I might.”

Yes. Life is soon to be reconstructed. Humans, through an extension of our very humanity – the tools, the technology – are simply beginning to lose what we once considered humanity. It’s all under the surface now. But it’s already changed the way we act around each other, the way we see and hear, our perception of time, and the manifestation of these changes is evident in an exponentially accelerating manner. The foundation of human knowledge is being renovated. And soon, the vessel of that knowledge will need to match.

The human brain, the source of human achievement, has remained significantly static throughout the history of our species. In this lifetime, that stasis will be interrupted. The massive network of electricity that we hold within our heads, powering our every motion and thought, will soon be matched by technology envisioned and engineered by patterns of that organic electricity. First matched. Then surpassed. Then integrated. Or so we are to understand.

The infinite bank of questions to counter speed-of-life progress will never be formulated in time to answer in traditional language to the species that will soon be transformed. Instead the answers will present themselves in a form that people will perceive in a stepwise evolution of technology. Change will come without warning or expectation.

To find the appropriate medium to document that change should come as no question. It should not be a matter of cost. As hard as it is to allow certain forms of beauty to age, all beauty, by nature, loses its freshness and is replaced by new fashion and method. Certain qualities are lost, but Always the new will offer modes of expression that more accurately encapsulates the attitudes and trends of the present. Cinematically, the Digital Era is as fresh now as the motion picture was in the silent picture era. However, embracing this new form of the cinematic medium, as the technology embraces the physical human, will become integral to expressing the human experience.

my liquid points.

I have built myself
a fine cage. With
a fine wheel and
a fine feeder.

And I have
fine friends
in other cages,
which, i suppose
shouldn't seem so fine.

My cage is glass.
One year ago,
it was simply
one clear panel.
One smudge took
one wipe to clean.

Now, it is one
and one
and one
and one.

And they are
not all the same
color nor are they
the same shape.

The catalogue I used
said they would
look good together,
but when they came
in the mail, they didn't
look like the picture.

Screws were missing
or I got hungry
and swallowed them.
I am indiscriminate
when it comes to
what enters me
and exits me.

Mostly I don't even
notice, unless it hurts
after it enters me,
causing tinges.

Tinges of different colors:
the blue ones
keep me in bed for
several days,
the red ones
keep me going and going,
the green ones
keep me chasing my tail,
the orange ones
(rare tinge, that)
keep me flat on my back
and three feet above ground.

Now, my cage,
the glass walls,
have tinges of
each of those colors.

But when my cage
is in a particular
mood, the tasteless
walls melt into my feeder.

And before I know it,
the tinges flow
though me, one by one,
and I'm three feet
above my bed,
going and going
as fast as I can,
just chasing that
tail of mine.

i = why.


written 12/1/05:

Invested in a situation that immediately fell out of his control, Victor lay down under his covers one night, and somewhere along the line, drifting in and out of awareness, concluded that his life would be safe if he never left his bed again.

"So warm," thought Victor, one eye half open, the other half shut. "So soft. I'd like to donate my legs to someone who'll put them to good use."

That morning, when his wife, who had slept in a bedroom all her own since Victor had stopped brushing his teeth and, more painfully, ceased cutting his toenails, noticed in the late morning, sitting at the breakfast table, patiently waiting and waiting for Victor to come prepare her daily biscuit, jam, three eggs, and freshly-juiced oranges, that her husband was strangly and disappointingly absent, she went to see if he was playing sick. He was playing harder than ever.


"Shoeboxes, shoeboxes," moaned Victor...

(Added 8/24/06:)

Victor solidly slept for the next four days, saturating the bedroom with the dense, humid odor of sleeper's sweat. In the meantime, his wife, unsettled by this incoherent message from her husband, began smoking cigarettes on the back porch and fancied all the things that she wanted but had never received in her life. And to pass the time equanimously, she sat for the full four days and fantasized about possible means to all these loose ends. Interim plausibilities.

Part One of Four: The Desert

Chapter Three: doublechque.

oh, how i have fallen.

my hands left undried,
believing with my eyes closed.
spark unshone and color washed,
i place her in a florid basket.
i misplace her in my sleep.

i put her down and the dream changes:
removing the white cotton gloves,
the bell player's gloves,
to leave fingerprints all over my
shapeshifting, to examine the worn,
the holes, the dusty threads,
but i lose those too.

now, if i do find you, i cannot even pick you up.
i could take you to a city, and hole up with you,
but here i am, writing candidly, a confession.
my master will hear me. he will hold me,
fiercely by the neck, he will grip me,
and to his rusty dogs, dodging nothing.

my master, he warns me:

the muscle, the shell, the peeling skin, that.
that fragrance i caught underneath all fear.
my porcelain hands unscrubbed, sickening
stubborn diversion, cricketskinned love affair,
i tell you now and you hear me not.

one day soon, your cosmic begging will find an answer.
your spirit will remain awake, and your eyes will
find a journey in a collective conscious, and your body will
wash ashore with the billions of others, all joined,
clasped dead hands along miles of ocean beach,
a meal for the future and you will be thankful.

when debating over the
dual legality and illegality
of terrorizing your enemy,
please keep in mind
electric surefire bullets.
5 silver, count to 3.
when you consider
what it's like to
feel your batteries drain,
it's clear a conscious
being shouldn't be run
on rechargeable batteries,
a form of torture.

a day of recovery:

falling asleep always feels better than waking up, especially when your cat leaves you for another (cat), especially when you wake up on the couch.
a morning run should feel better than being late.
a resignation to underpreparation.
a position of comfort on repeat.
a tilted ladder onto a steep damp roof
onto a slippery metal roof
through a screen
through the window:
a fight for warmth and charcoal peace.
i pay you, thanks for nothing.
and a solitary unimportance.

"the real problem with the interface is that it is an interface"
--don norman, usability expert and champion of human-centered design

between two towers
rests my interface,
a common privacy.
i think to you
you scream to me.

where i will build my home,
where i awake from my illusions of disconnectedness
where i seek to realize beyond mere knowing
that what my fingers hold, not only my fingers hold.
that what my feet erode, not only rubs off on my heels.

in this age of information -- the ramping up of stimulus so that when we're ready for it, when we catch up, we won't be entirely lost on it -- i hope we're learning that the urge to hide is the most basic and most futile urge of all.

even in hiding we swallow the labor of generations. if you try and hide more than 10 feet off the ground, you rest on manhours and steelhours. you rest on punctured and aerated, vacuumed and filtered, melted and molded lithosphere. we grind the crust and try and hold it all in our heads, but, like eating the skin of an orange, once the taste is lost we wonder why we went about it in the first place.

until we can jump into the molten furnace of our planet with body suits and take copious notes, we shouldn't give ourselves more credit than we deserve. we are not entitled. we breed centers while we should breed bodies. there's everything true in assuming you are wrong until you hear it from every person on this planet that you are right.

Hints of Treason

Unlucky strands
Matted to her cheek.
The tears streaming,
Strands jealously observing
Whole head blown freely
Gusting through the
Point of ceaseless mourning.

Son, a passenger
Young one, divine and quiet
An angel through anyone's.
The window holds back wind,
Sensations layers below skin.
For son, a vision of father:

Helmethair, dust of exploded
Cement walls, desert rocks.
Selfstunning paralysis,
A cessation of direct commands,
And now lacks the training
To ask questions of himself.
Skins darker, welcome the chance.

...and you may keep your development to yourself.

already,
freckles of rust
show on a drain that
has not even been applauded
for its functionality.

do not worry, drain.
you will be recognized
for your acheivements.
and scorned for your failures.

if i were to give you
one word of advice,
it would be to
hide your runoff.

you're built well
for galoshes and
newspaper sailboats,
but drain, you are

different
from the drain
i grew up with:
my home drain,
i could descend
below the grate.

i could have dreams
of losing toys in her
and being lowered into her,
spraypainted fish
caution of the lake.

scraping ice and snow
from you in the winter,
the residents will care
for you, drain, because
they need you.

another moth across the waste...

do computers say 'um'?

do they form an orderly mental queue,
are they foreign to stress,
are they patient?

or

when presented with multiple commands,
does it take time to unmuddle,
is there a moment's hesitation
in which it cannot decide how
to approach the task at hand?

the latter seems to me
or am i just self-projecting?

as a user,
being impatient with a computer,
clicking and hitting keys,
compounding the freeze,
is this lock a manifestation?
is the heat produced by circuits,
(elevated in these um-states,
magnified by the user's expectation)
which wear thin over time
analogical to the masticating effect
of responsibilities and strains
on our Humanly Elevated State
called life?

just reach out and touch.
promise it won't hurt.
if i bite off a finger,
just pretend i didn't,
and my face.
they say it's cold, uptight,
it looks dead to me,
but what's the distinction?
so much space between me
and my reflection.
anyway, with the blood
from your finger,
my visage, both warm and alive.
i hold such warm memory
and such alive expectation.
between these, elusive focal point,
found only in the deep field.

Chapter Two: disdain and attraction.

master set the table
using only his silverest spoon,
polished with the most caustic tarnish.
'tainted' he contemptuously uttered.
'your meals will be tainted tonite.'

scratched on master's conscious:

i keep you as subjects,
not as my servants.
i do not insult myself,
the laziness of assistance
the ineptitude of being cared for.
i spit only on my shoes
and on you below me.

and the problem stood:
what was the binding clause?
not impoverished, immigrated,
no saved life to requite.
what volition (the first clue)
owed our indenture?

when i am less worn.

posthuman visions:

my tongue, will you not the talking?
my brain, will you not the sleeping?
and my eyes, will you not the opening?
these, i want to stare at the bottom
of my mattress and still hear all.

To share like a wire,
a lossless realization.
a burgundy ribbon, golden silk,
without words and space to dilute
an intention clearer than air.

please bathe my brain
in a protein electrolyte solution,
removed from this illspinning axis.
where, as no one reads what they can't see,
grounded, i will know you in
kissing our shells, rings, tips.

Chapter One: i slippd.

it's dry.
there's a little water, but only in the middle,
you're going to have to break through a lot to get there
(we're still surveying new layers continually).

please don't get there.
it'll only pain your spoon and my body.
meyesawn. my eyes do yawn.
and my mouth blinks. 'mouthlinks.
(that's all you really need to know about me)

there's always a more polite way to say something.
you can always bend over the upside.
and nauseate over the downs.
and especially blear and whinge over them
(when master's not tuned in).

you can manipulate your center of gravity:
1) jump and
2) oops, my foot missed the railing
three options:
3) i'm feeling it: shavings of pavement in my warmblooded opinion.
3) thank Goodness, for these denims. these leathers. cowskin to save my blood from spilling (only bruising).
3) but what? i never came down.

no, i nver nver came down.
in an frenetic opaque bloodrush
i transcended my skull against steel.
my skull did not escape its sentence, no.
nope, but i sure did. otherwise, i couldn't be telling you this.
it was mere calcium. and the rest was living.
if dropped, a limestone, a shale would have won the same.
dandruff dust and brain encrusted, i escaped before that happened.

but how?

spend a day memorizing a drum pattern on your knees.
spend a day thinking grades don't matter.
then spend a day elated by scores.
stalk your fantasy but put on a thin face.
spend a day, no more like 2 weeks now, promising yourself a haircut.
spend a saturday with your face over a toilet.
and hours and hours scanning bar codes. smile.

write half a poem without inspiration,
then copy the second half from something else.

can we balance our electrochemicals?
should be parsed and parsed?
sparsely my lips are drying out
and bar codes could be idle minded.
but they suggest a pleasant rhythm
a daily tonal expectation
and something that will never let me down.

a general barrier.

you are the tarmac
and
the airplane lifting off.

the rip of the engine,
pressured air,
hundreds of degrees,
as you push off from yourself.

are there passengers?
children looking out the
windows of your eyes;
seeing for the first time,
a horizon the edge of a circle.

yes, they look from you.

but also there are airtraffickers
standing with cushioned heels
on your grounded half.
the workmen, carting luggage,
guiding the split professionally.

the inhabitants of this divide
hardly comprehend
that where one plane takes off,
another lands.

critical mass.

a bed in the hospital
is the perfect place to
collect your flesh in a bundle.

a bed in a nursing home
is the perfect place to
scramble brains for breakfast.

a bed in the janitor's closet
is a sorry place to
mingle with mops,
you poor thing.

a bed bunked,
a guessing game.

a bed with comforters
offers deception so vivid
pray never to wake up
once you reach feathers
the end of every day.

a bed,
with gas as it is,
cheaper than
the average dozen.

a bed in a room
with windows
will nurse you
back to reality.

a bed,
i'll tell you what i mean,
is where, when you
sink into feathers,
horizon grows from
your ears.

a bed,
with this horizon,
i hope you understand,
will keep your hours from
growing short.

a bed,
with these hours,
i don't know why,
can give you
recourse from the Cycle.

please,
beware
the Cycle.

happy halloween.

may dread and horror grip
the darkest evening
of the year.

may razor blades and rat poison
in apples and homebaked cookies
raise the Current Threat Level
to orange. it would be festive.

welcome.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs2.5 License.