The Alert
says I
should take a shower
now
but
the spray comes thin
like Twiggy from
the 70s
like Kate Moss from
magazines that can't turn a
profit like David Lehman's
warm shower trickling down
a cold April back
but
now
it's the tip of March
and the thin rain
comes
like my Blood loving
into mist memories

It's like steps, baby steps
in puffy, winter's clothes
from protective parents
bundles of joy, pushing through snow
white, pure,
in innocence

It's as if seasons ago
we ankle biters collected Maple leaves
as the colors changed
and froze them in between
pages of a college student's
journal full of love and passion,
in hope

that the spring of our lives
will come too soon,
and the dried leaf
and the driven snow
will add up to
something, anything
before the winter sets
in again.

Wake, read, work
and Repeat.

Sounds like a movie
instead of coffee
with my father

distant

with David Lehman
on March 30
living The Best Years of Our Lives

reading again David
things I've forgotten
things We'll only remember

living in the Matrix
of references and inside joke,
literature search
and transposed multiplication
instead of regularized
algorithm

how funny our dad
is who knows only trees
and the bitter cold as Winter
sets in my lips are dry
what do we say
skin like parchment

how funny our Dad
who only knows
streams of information
shows as allegory
"Shaka when the walls fell"

what's a good movie
quote for Failure?

The Titanic?
always the sinking
is corrupted with an interlacing
Rose at the bow
dreaming of forever love

We dads aren't Dana Andrew
We don't even know
who
that is and don't care
We're frantically Raising
Arizona blossoms in concrete
soil two beautiful
daughters
We CK Lewis Dads

Lehman time is
over time to take a shower, work
and Repeat.

Only in last year's glow,
could this year's Red
chorizo salami come,
and I haven't gone yet.

Gone over the edge
of these Breakfast tables,
in empty cup
or full of caffeine.

Gone over to home not yet
cuz the Brain keeps
me here in a dish,
in artificial cerebral spinal fluid,
or let's just call it
Recording Solution

Don't mix the salts!
Cross-contamination
is a killer for these Recordings.

Does our family speak to us on cold winter's night?
Even if there's no creek to crackle,
no stiff spines, no furry trees,
nothing but a Van Gogh room
in Somerville
and digital clocks ticking.

Does our family still speak?
Chattering away,
Background processes,
Garbled noise, garbage without
wisdom because we've lost the sophistication
to crack ancient encryption.

We hear the history,
and mimic vocalization like a song bird,
dolphin or elephant
each with converging neural circuits.

Members living the same stream?

It's easier to hack the data line,
when we've trained on same sets:
a missing wife,
black and white photos,
and a grandfather clock.

There's an elegance
to the math

but

it's too complicated for
us to understand much less
make a career of writing
ring looped code
or father toddling

equations.

At best, we fancy Newtonian
relationships,

common sense ones that any 17
century young Romanticist
would Realize

The faster we accelerate into Love the greater
the Force of our relationship
and the Mass of our egos multiply the effect

A Love in motion stays in motion

If only we live in vacuums

our fairy tale would never end
and the forever after is locked,
safe behind Castle doors

But our stories are more like Grimm Tales

Impulse
forces of liberated Egos
change the trajectory
of our real

love.

Random white cue *****
bounce us into a side pocket.

And who's to know?

Are the cul-de-sacs
any worse than
landing in an odd corner,
bunched in with only
a stripped
or solid ball?

At least we didn't scratch
against some misshapen Black
eight

Alert!

Oh. It's only a reminder.
Automated, automatically sent
to us.

An email, a text.
They pop on devices,
trained that way.

Tomorrow's a birthday.
Always tomorrow an Alert!
Someone's born.

Yet, the helper has become a daemon.
Friendly assistance
become nudges of melancholy.

A Daemon for grieving?

How many Alerts
can the heart take?

Yearly jolts,
automated realization
that our family is fading.

Not tomorrow's children
born into midnight's Alert,
but the child father,
mother, sister, and brother we
remember in bleaching photos.

Chemically fading away,
decaying like data
on hard drives.

Our stormy lives
remembered with
a half-life of gentle reminders.
Remembered as
ghostly background processes
sending alerts of birthdays so long
ago there's no trace except
in shared memories.

They go thru flow cells
and return a million read

Weekly poems sent
anonymously to be sequenced
in a massively parallel
batch job

The hits come back
in blinking dots,
ephemeral likes, individual
happy flashes from
bar-coded singlets.

But how to know
when a solitary spot
has read our entire
genome?

Have you binged
on the DNA
of our identity?

Can you tell us
who I are
and
where I are going?

It is a measure of time's passage. An ancient way intertwining all cultures, and yet this time the changing is different. The leaves cycle colors and fall from the branches. I heard the chainsaws the other day, and thought that they were trimming the bare branches back for next year.

I was wrong.

They had cut down the entire tree.

It made sense.

All last winter, I heard it scrape against the building during stormy nights. My modern utility agrees but the monkey is lost with old rhythms cut from the base, and looking out a reflecting window gives no sense of where the time is going.

It's a valley carved by moving water
It's a face wrinkled by time's current
It's a hike across the valley's face
It's a trek in through our granite life
It's a shout into the cool mountain air
It's a spike tracing our cloudy memory
It's a familiar echo bounced  
It's a family reverberation gone
The mountain has moved
The river is still

I thought
the carbon monoxide detector
was malfunctioning,
her pulsed chirps
pierce so sharp
unlike any stray
songs of carousing
cat

Supposedly, she brings
good luck like rain
on your wedding
day

A dreambot cricket
more machine
in sound than any slumbering
Kafka insect
bed bug mate
I've every slept
with

She wakes me
in nightly false
alarms but when her short
life is done
maybe I'll miss
nocturnal jolts
like I miss
cold misty
rain

This daily Trial
has transformed
tadpoles to chicken
liver-- a Metamorphosis,
a selection process
most Unnatural.
Darwin's joke,
light humor
to ease our
quest for Waze
into the Castle.

the leaves are changing colors fast!
just two days ago, they were green on the inside,
fringed with yellow, gold and crimson edges.
today the jaundice seeps in bunches and bushels,
reaching in along the veins and branches
into the capitulating green core.
tips of exposed twigs reveal
falling, failing tribal leaves
in the autumn cool air.
skeletons of Halloween start to stick
their bony hands into the even darkness.

And what about the days
that don't come,
or the Hours not spent
buying flowers from Edeka?

Where do they go?

Do they join Walter
in some daydreaming
intermittent reality?

Is the Time
evaporated by Entrepreneurs
burning our candles
at both ends to turn
steam driven carbines
for our adiabatic work
cycles underneath Caves of Steel?

Is it enough to live
part of someone else's
dream because we know
that our's Comes this
way Wicked?

Actuators, cogs, brain bit,
and organoids all on Chips
or ships setting sail
into rosy fingered robots
of dawn.

Ahoy mateys!

We set sail for a Manifest
Destiny without O Captain,
My Captain; though the civil
struggle continues dressed up
in some ******* suit.

we read enough poetry
or short stories from steve
Millhauser, the "as if"s
become like

splotches there, interstitially
holding visceral fragments
together as if by
logical cement.

it's as if our heads have become
saturated, or supersaturated
till the now and then moments
crystallize around "as if"s.

we wonder why
our loves doesn't nucleate
like <from> a more solid rock
metaphor
or why
our agreeable phrase
spreads as creamy cream cheese
on thoughtless bagels?

Is love like riding a horse?

Is it like straddling big
powerful steeds, jumping
over rails, and lazy
brown foxes?

Sometimes we need a crop
to whip our pony to that final
spurt, stretching a Black Stallion nose
across spent finish,
glistening with sweat at besting
the crowded rest.

And if we fall
we're suppose to just get
right back tall
into that saddle set
Superwoman like

rather than some crippled
ghost rider, a Ritalin
paraplegic Reeve coming out
only to fake her maudlin bout
around another racetrack night.


Maybe love is like jumping
out of a perfectly good aeroplane
without a parachute
hoping
falling
watching
to see if a ridiculous Bond
James will HALO
drop
us desperately out of danger, a ripping clutch
released
at ten thousand feet.

Love sure is like an action-adventure movie!

Our love in mundane lives
spills laughter till our sides
burst,
till our hearts explode
sending
pieces too far off
cities
shell-shock
amnesic
and hungry for new horse races
with a spotted Mustang.

The clay comes from Earth
just as we
clay motion people Wurm
our way up

In a miracle we fool
ourselves
thinking transmogrification
has Calvinized calves
into bronze molded
legs shaped by a wise Maker

Instead of fast steel Forge
industrially heated
within Narcissus' Crucible

Hot from the oven
our Make-over face,
rouged from fused
sand calls
us Beauties silicon
-enhanced

How many Dolls might be in the Valley?

Can you breath heavenly still
    so I can count top your holy hill?
It's just me come sightly so  
    working Charity back and fro
    my true badge of rite
Stitched across a tongue's bite
    a neighbor's door
    and between insults of a *****.
What vile eyes you say,
    but hey, don't fret, fear nor fray
    for whatever reason we surely
Can sew a new button for Suri's
    innocent nose and dust
    off the corruption to prove
    that I never wished to move.

<quote>
Do I ******* or hate you?
...
<quote />

Money doesn't grow from
poems
or sprout forth from
jazz
trumpet, sax, nor
bass
line chord and
key
progressing flatly from
B
to some more curvaceous
tonic.

My Momma told me
shop
around for a wonderful
life
and I look and heard
choirs
singing common Gospel
words

Giving more than taking like
free
service that ask for only
donations
in return for daily
bread

So we say best wishes to all
who can conjure
cash
from our daily
*******

Cuz it's never produced a single
cash
record playing on college
radio
but if I listen
freely
I think I hear our Fruitcake
music!

Eyes without e
or she or he
or perhaps a genderless
E
beckons
because without
e
we mingle, chat
and must lifely confess
eYes without e
whispers a desperate
Yes

Who knew of Gwendolyn
as if I should know
as if it were February
on the history channel

Is it odd that Ed
finally introduced us
after so many years
as if he should be
suspiciously Caucasian

like Ed who
I really don't know
from Baltimore
growing up white
against black because
that's how America was
and is lovable,
hardworking, left-leaning
with a racist mother

or not like Curtis
who's Pusherman
from Chicago deals
I don't know waht
because I've got no
streets but enough schoolin
than most deserve.

I didn't know Gwendolyn
and that's not ironic
motivation to deal
more poetic *****
up for us to huff.

Aren(t) could be what we are
but not

a function passing time that
could be anything goes
the argument

Don(t) likes Juan
the fat one in a Chevrolet
riding alone

Haven(t), Won(t), all negate
the haves and what nots
of me doing

I(ll) passes me a double deuce
a good hand to start

but let's wait
on the flop, turn
and our river

Only fools believe in Abominable Snow
and no one does good broken hearted Man.

A Rock gazes upon pebbles looking four Silicon Gods
and no one does good on perverted side Sand.


Are we criminals or cannibals, eating on bread people
while calling post-X generation right?

Should we lie in Fear of stuff, Snow or rock
as we dip our tip and take winged flight?

O the Security of States win point
as only captive Joy and Jacob can rejoint.

Over fitting curves
to Noise. There's a drought in Puerto
Rico and Los Angeles.

Water from the Rio La
Plata is low and wow is Sierra
in her young days,
with full snowy capped
*****.

How the drooling Mangos
all crowd her on a Carnival Cruise
-- a blinding which Sun?

Somewhere even in the noise of Umma
crying, even along a low river gurgle,
a yowling true love
Signal is found. Maybe.

Probabilistically.

Crazy for advice from an artificial seat of Intelligence
called Iiamd.

The way of Sinners.

Why not meditate on night, sun, and delights
of adjusted fruits, borne and evolved
by the side of the River.

Crazy.

Is this not the case?
Chaffs blovingly removed
in a Way from Us standing with sinners--
So Bad, not bad.

My Man he's one true or sinner
Wayward God knows the way.

And another day starts pushing
first poetry like lines
from a retired Marine
Larkin cookbook who stops
singing because I asked
if he was Army

I've never heard Das Veilchen
but Mädchen hitch hiked to hear
Reggae Prince far wide beat
in and around
Aalen perhaps the softest sound
from a Brother I've never
heard or had.

Joan and her Wild punk song really
icon and cult forms
from Assisi 142
Mercy mercy was
it my whole faith then
and now

Help Believers O righteous children,
but not in Vanity, a neighbor of trembling double lips
and proud vibrating tongues saying
Winners are our Lords.

We poor complaints with fiat money have yet to wake safely
sterilized seven times pure in a Central Bank's furnace.
This forever implemented generation is protected thus
from angry steps down both aisles of withered white men.

<quote>
Though we vacationed in a castle, though I
rode you hard one morning to the hum
of bees that buggered lavender, and later
...
<quote />

I contemplated a plan on freedom's floor.
I'm not a fugitive from fun.
But a brother like me begun -- is just another one.
Public persona number four!

<quote>
I bought a red bra, she said.
I knew you'd like it.
The only problem was I didn't
have a red blouse to wear with it.
...
<quote />

Don't hate the Playa,
hate the game.
But do you believe in a brave
new Gaming World?

A Halo sheen,
sheathing ancient veins,
pulsating, and spurting
forth the same old sins to love,
while we saunter and strut,
pointing at taunted sinners to hate.

It's hard loving Playas,
cuz they smells, and cuss like a *******.
Dumb ***** singing
beautiful Indri morning
wake up gospels from an old extant
lemur memory trace.

Should I put my trust in Bee lords still fleeing Soulbirds to a mountain hive?
Buzzing low for blow, a rope-a-dope act--wicked ploy to bend a heartbeat dive
up, straight to canvas still in robe wondering what went wrong.
Is the whites of my throne eye just a lid on Heaven's long
setting Sun?! Son, I reason, takes cruel violence but for love to hate,
a nasty trap is made of sliding rain and stone glass brimming a horrible fate
for April's face and Charity's mate.

<quote>

When you’re young, and in good health,
you can imagine living in New York City,
...
<quote />

<quote>
...
Your body is a garbage can.
Your body is white, why

let others touch it, why
not. Why

my body so
tentative, do I
...
</quote>

As close letting
to bending bones
broken,

As wide setting
so mending minds
rhyme,

As We of age,
collateral children
in time will rage

In strapless grown,
in dead damage
razed by wings flown.

<quote>
...
This is a waist the spirit breaks its arm on.
The gods themselves, against you, struggle in vain.
This broad low strong-***** brow; these heavy eyes;
These calves, grown muscular with certainties;
This nose, three medium-size pink strawberries
...
</quote>

You gotta remember
that we're just
upright primates
full of fear,
pounding chest,
full of joy,
vicious in survival.
Small band of the Hand
clumping together,
increasingly clustering,
like fractal adolescence.
Fighting and *******;
Cuban Missile Crisis,
and Free Love Sixties.
Proof that solutions
for small Hand & Bobono
don't fit sullen temperament
of precious preteen.

In a film,
In laced past,
Our shared memory
whispered
that if you build it
they will come.
And so he built it.
And so we build it.
A real field
where the ghosts
come to play.
I'm here
training my ghost.
He might not be good
or even Shoe-less.
Maybe, maybe in
a fast forward moment
a young Costner,
with love of the game,
will see my ghost
long after
and play a day
catching ball.

Who's left holding lost remotes?

Too many devices for soul oats
seeded in poor soil and bad reviews, a stinging blessing
at wicked thoughts best. Pride turning on TV, caressing
for an absent Love out of sight and mind. For the Roosters, Fear.

Combs without waivers, thinking, I will be Cockmeister here
with cursing chicks and deceitful vanity, Evil errant.

Secret murders, and poor innocents wearing broken covenant,
lured to an ant-lion's nest, sliding down Banker's drawers into earning
crevices of Mr. Crouch, his curvaceous cushions hiding hard yearning.  

Say Love is forgotten with a hidden face, because we'll never see
with Chicken humility the forgotten Love given for free.

What kinda fried Chicken doesn't hate free Sauce you might ask?
There's the poor commitment's rub, an Assistant father taken to task.

Violate his wicked arm. Search the veins of evil's grime
until the forever King is found mysteriously without crime.

You've heard our heart headset's rumble,
Oppressed orphan's plea given most humble.

A Dancing fever
spreads across
Deutschland from
ancient Roman City
Aachen

to far away
Madagascar where
proto-people
live, waking to morning
whooping calls
and fading habitat.

We can still find
preserved Lemurs
in Duke hospitals
and open zoo
for robust ring-tailed,
or dark cells
for the nocturnals.

Would they dance
too with us, in mass
hysteria,
irrational exuberance,
and ergot
poisoning if
only later converting
to a Science
belief-system new?

Two tracks of fluorescent lights. I can't see where they meet in infinity. There are remnants of bugs from the summer.

modified 2015.06.22

Fluorescent light
hang
above. Twin tracks

that cannot meet
in
infinity

where bug remnants
dry
from last summer.

A shelf made of pine artificial looking plywood. It holds all of my research notes and some other stuff.

Modified.2015.06.19

An artificial
plywood
shelf looking of pine

Holds my research
notes
and some other Stuff

The carpeted floor
squeaks
as I walk on it.

Sound like the croaking
voices
of undead Donald
Ducks.

There's hunger
in my belly.
A churning knot
-- not too bad yet.

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.