Some days I wish I were an X-men
and not just an ordinary mutant.
Some days I wish I had Magician
level magic like Bink,
just enough to negate other's.
But then I look around;
The Irish and English don't have it.
The Pakistanis and Indians don't have it.
The Chinese and Taiwanese don't have it.
The Hutu and Tutsi don't have it.
The neighbors in Bab Tabbaneh and Jabal Mohsen,
don't have it.
Why should I have it?
We’re all just a bunch of Muggles.

Maybe it's a good thing I don't have superpowers.
I look around and in fits of frustration,
in bouts of rage, I might destroy all the Husnock.
I'm kinda glad now my only mutations are thoughts.
Thoughts that I put here,
viral like - infective memes - hemorrhagic e-fever.
Outbreak? Snow Crash? Virulency? Survival rate? Epicenter?
Futile epidemiology because I know
exactly what and where I am.

little mosquito net
stocking
catching morning dew
drops

idyllic street corner
still cool
calling midnight's
breeze

morning starts at five
O'clock
spill drunken time's
broth.

As I walk the streets
I wonder about Eddie
and the Cruisers, mashing
my makeup with my believe.

Have you taken the latest quiz?

It's one of the quickest
way to
drive site visits.
That and lists. People
luv lists!

Riddle me this Batman!

What kind of narrative has no quick
answers to political questions?

If my Brand answers
can't match stock candidate's
sound bites
does it mean I don't
believe anymore?

It's complicated and I have issues but no policy.

60% match with Rand, 70% match with Bernie
and the dichotomy is split.
Libertarian or Progressive?
Yin or my yang,
Always a montage of my yang!

We've come in nonsense
face, believing Third Vehicle ways,
like Tea, or Green,
or Green Tea Party Girl!

My narrative doesn't match yours.
Does it mean we can't date each other?

There'll never be a complete
fit, no
soul mate here
for our consensual policy
making.

It's quiet except for the humming
of the machines.

Do we call them machines or instruments?
Do they do or do they measure?

They're little helpers who organize
thoughts and time, blocking
hours with workers, friends and
family.

A list manager of sorts.
It's easy -- something like:
>Monday, 5:00 pm - family.Christine
or
>Tuesday, 12:00 pm - friend.Giorgia

And when we miss an appointment
our helpers are fire-walled
from disappointment, sorrow
and lost.

They stay functional.

It's easy for their electronic hands
to <strikeout>
meetings held in an hour
past.

-- something like:
>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad
to
<strikeout>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad </strikeout>

-- something like:
>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt
to
<strikeout>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt </strikeout>

It's done-- changed from a living one to a final zero,
binary absolution.

Our stream continues,
released from obligations
that I hold tight
still.

We're not Protocol Droids.
We feel Ghosts in the Machine.
We see Apparitions in the Rituals,
and Sprites in the Protocols
running through our network
still.

There's no clemency for us.

In my child and heart we raise
hard work and rejoice in praise

on dying back labor we fall
right into arm of Justice call

Forever screaming of little cheats,
new wicked name at our constant feats

of centered tatamat spirals,
of Sensei's sunflower petals

In my heart and child we seek
refuge in trying times reek

trusting in not u but us, women, woman,
to gender mine for blood estrus sand

hot to the crying mercy touch
hot to modesty tested too much

hating to death's stuffing mouth
hating a networks gone South

their tangled weaves hidden under
foot, forgot Hell's nation worker

a poor man's hope never cut down,
executed behind comment's frown

Put mercy's fear upon the nations
known to themselves as Lordy rations