with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

Do you take the path of least resistance to get through the day?
Do all those leaflets make zero sense to you, too?
So you take a beeline route to avoid
anyone that is trying to sell you something;
the missionaries by the charity shop,
old lovers in the beer garden-
do you take worn paths only to lament
the lack of changing scenery?

Do you get ****** up just to calm down?
Do the seasons creep up on you, too?
In one moment, are you walking through the autumn leaves,
only to find yourself buried in snow?
Buried in the hue of the darkest blue,
where only melodies can reach you beneath the soil,
a tone-deaf beat that gives cause
for you to wait out the winter,
until something starts to give,
until something comes to change,
until the old warehouse of memories
is finally rearranged.

Do you miss the moments that matter
only after they do not matter anymore?
Do you always hope for friends
only after you have locked every single door?

I guess I'm lonely.
I guess I'm a little arrogant.
I guess my collar turns up to the wind
whilst blocking out the adverts
in my periphery.
I guess I blinkered myself
to keep things moving forward,
detaching from people
to find an honest word,
beyond fear of detection,
beyond hurting others
whilst I shatter into pieces;
making the stage the only place
where I can find a voice
choosing solitude,
as if I had a choice-
you know I never learned
how to drive a car,
I have walked so many miles
but I have never got very far.
I guess I'm lazy.
I guess I'm a little broken.
I guess I'm just a skeleton
of all the words I've left unspoken.

she studies the history of colors
in a building that
lacks it
i study garbage tossed on
the side of the street
and worn out faces on the
city bus
i write simple words in
a coffee stained notebook
she writes long, complicated
sentences, elaborate
explanations, provides examples
on crisp white paper
Font size 12
Ariel Black

she asked me what
do i do?
and i said i am a hostess at a restaurant
but hopefully, one day,
i’ll get to sit around
and do nothing
when she left, i thought
our exchange went
smoothly
the next morning i heard
she said our conversation
was awkward

There is nary a tree where I do live
And highlands beyond are naked,
Yet all is green and all is grey.

If you listen a tad you will hear not,
But the race and howl of windy lot
And all is green and all is grey.

The glens are bare and now remote,
The narrow roads are but outlines,
Yet all is green, muted in throat.

Little boats are waiting in harbour,
The sea is a full glass of milky grey,
All is green, be glad, lass be gay.

And I breathe where I wait and live,
O mountains are snowy and grave,
Yet green, grey, all tarnish today.

I'm with you in the old red mortar and brick,
the city our childhood played out in.

No one can touch
or bear the humility of the quiet things here.

That which was silenced decades ago
shred itself.

Downtown, you find self is not a container or apparatus
but a sunlight.  

And sometimes also a shadow. A crowd. Watch
how they fold down the granite stairs. Ripple in the wind.

They both unwind like a line from the fish reel
and stand still as a streetlight,

a name not spoken.