The threads wave
around, interferometric
process that form my
sock.

It's a long white
one with green, thin
stripes, the sporty
kind on
top.

I pull them
old school up, knee
high in Cooper-fashion,
running, executing
a fast-break Worthy
enough for MBA Network
court.

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.

In twilight of cloudy morning
I look unglassed into a mirror
and sight nearly the old
face that use to be

In reflective hours of still
young morning
I listen for passing echos
from cars and passengers on
their Work way that will be

In greying silver of late morning
Summer I feel expire
as the class of 2020
arrives at Harvard
wondering want can be

I'm down with OOP
You down with OOP?
Yeah you know me

Somewhere before
the code was
the Word and
the Word was
the Class and
the Class was
the Word

In the beginning
the Word named
the Class God and
called an instance
ourUniverse

This is ourUniverse
There are many like it,
but this one is ours
ourUniverse is our best friend
It is ourLife
We must master it as we
must master ourLife

There maybe many
other parallel instances
but ours is our favorite no
butts about it

Yeah you know we
Who's down with OPP?
We're down with OOP

David meditates, sings and Cushes words like Yemini.

Yawn when I seek refuge,
and cover me your mouth from pride,
least lions tear apart my mercy,
each piece and part never delivered.

Yawn if I do,
doing with wrong hands
rewarding U in peace with my fist,
seeking a foe for no reason.
Yes. Pass the Fiend thru the pieces,
and yes, lay my dust,
honored on the Erd.
Rock.

Yawn in anger,
so different than the wrath of my enemies,
waking for me, giving me judgement,
finding me a band of hands
beating, clapping, higher & higher.
What does the director think
of all this righteous clatter?
My Ray Charles stitched on trial
for wicked this way done.
Let's groove to the just
with heart and head.

A shield in Yawning.
A left-handed Mit,
judging in right field.
Yes. Yawn in anger daily,
while U in prison, sharpen that stick,
bend your back, pull that gut,
and shoot the broken arrow
to light up the sky.

You see? In just twice time,
you see mischief conceived
in womb of lies.
He dug that hole,
and fell head first, a minor
***** slapping him in return.
Slapping him from the heights,
yawning just twice time,
to wake, sing, and praise most high.

Time is curved
spaciously along
pushed strings

Curvature
constrained by
thickness of
stringy ropes

A bang splits
point-like to
cooling forces
beyond spontaneity

Membrane rupture
prevented only by
seeding of
life within bilayers

Weak and Strong
forced together
again by surface
surfactants

it's the old Lehman
interlace again I
wonder how many I's
might some day buy The
Daily Mirror making
David the first poet to become
rich but like so many artist long
after they're dead

we're like nerve fibers
fasciculating fine word
that juxtaposes well to fardels

we bear-- words
heavy with too much bass
restricting us to only 3
degrees of freedom: Music
Word and Color

we' ld build a higher Babble
if only unbound from
a flat syllable world

we'd settle the Prometheus score
with 4D notes like cut-red-Bminor-spin

we'd render the higher ordered
flesh with 10D swirl-syncopated-reflect-bass-kisses-Lorena-Tom-***-soft-cookware­
to a fatty shard able
to cross synaptic chasm but maybe
we shouldn't for there's the rub in our xenophobic
extra dimensions

we'd find Superman
banished enemies or Buckaroo
aliens waiting to invade they always come from that extra
dimension don't they the ones

we don't fully understand the ones
wavering on the edge of perception of curiosity of fearfulness of exploring
a neighbors yard watchful for their dog
ready to run back
to safety back
to our one dimension back
to one Word
Singularity

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.

We say with Glee to each other
"you're gonna miss me when I'm
gone", tap, tapping a hollow,
rhythmic heart beat tune we all
can dance 2.

Blue songs -- heart break, and heart
make -- comforting white
noise from a TV left
on because we need company
while shuffling about our
widowed empty nest.

Is the truth always sad or
does it make us angry?

The clinical diagnosis is no one
will remember when I'm gone.

There'll be no shrine in a living
room reminding us
of Vietnamese grave sites
where my father's, his
father's, my uncle's, and my cousin's
names are written.

All the boy's names are forgotten.

Modern girls need closure, shutting
the door to past boys
because it hurts too much
when the shoe is on the wrong
foot.

We wonder which gender
neutral Gloria will survive,
and which stupid
lock should have been changed,
and which door must close
forever, forgotten.

Maybe the truth does set
us free, but we don't realize
it yet and still comes back to
haunted houses,
spending ghost money from
a displaced parent's love wallet.

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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.

it’s not old style, old school plain glass. it
may look old, but it’s new, stressed new;
glass soaked in molten cation.
ensnared in furnace, one cat is exchanged for
another making glass super strong.
this is good.
what doesn't **** makes you stronger.
yes and no Pink.
if you soak your heart in molten cation.
you will come out shining and new,
strong like a ******?
you have to understand the alchemy.
you see, in a headout collision with
new Stressed glass, it
breaks into a thousand tiny
safe pieces.
you won't have sharp shards, or
receding hairline fractures,
cracks and fissures spreading across
fatty deposited windshield.
the new heart is stress tested.
no spreading wave depression,
across your fiber glass network.
The crack is localized.
When the collision is big enough
the entire windshields shatters.
I guess you have to replaced it with
a new  stress, molten dipped, cation exchanged
heart.

if we're blue right
it out in a left
handed jaundice
sky a golden sky sky
key yellow way

like we're creeping
banana wallpaper pealing
off heaven in claps
of thunder clawed
off  beneath tiny
media sausage paws
of a black & white Terrier
we've dressed

in unnatural
sarcasm difficult to rightly
see in the tall indigo
grass we're

green again if mixing
blades with lowly plain Asian
tone is a thing

to the. I always.
I know. Noise falls.
the necessity. Strike One.
My body. When I.
your hair. I think.
it starts. So many.
What is. when I.
If you. The world.
i read. I was.
Wearing A. You're right.
I'm pretty. everything.
Your *******. It's like
Once upon. I brought.
I'm falling. obviously.
To the. It is.
I wouldn't. I wouldn't.
Your cup. i know.
the truth. you turn.
I checked. Leo.
you brought. your eyes
your lips. you are.
because. poison.
spoon.

My quantum politics,
occupies two Space at the same time.
Is it possible?!
Macroscopically, it doesn’t seem possible,
but at quantuam levels, I enter the center,
pulling the masses, the gravitation
that is us.
Black hole. The unknown? Not Stasis.
Not Equilbirium. Death: an uninteresting
recycling between two states.
At the event horizon?
There I am pushing too, out to the far left.
the agenda curved and futurist.
How can I fault another quantuam state
far on a momentum right in opposite spin?
We Fuse at the dense core
of a black hole sun, and meet beyond.

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.

Three Wise men
were dividend on money.
The First suggested drawing
a circle in dirt's poverty,
and casting fortune to the air.
If cash lands in circle dare,
give it to the job creators.
No, said the next Scholar fair.
If luck falls outside circle's care,
give it to the job suppliers.
The last Magi quickly realized
that squandered worth never returns
from Heaven, and interest earns
nothing in God's keeping.

a coffee breakfast last
year dad had just passed
away last month ta ree
the year before i'm away
from Home again i think
I can still call
them and talk update dad
on work ta ree for a recipe or how
to cook something I remember
everywhere there's food
and habit and repetition they
are there like the coffee
everyday

moving always gather dust,
swirling plumes
stuck in tiny granules of sweat,
and tears. secreting pores
cl0gged with detritus
of past life stirred
in passage to a short
sharp future.

a shocking c0llection
of earth, keratin, and
electron sheen on me,
confusing
or submerging
or subverting
0r diverting,
obfuscating or
simply schmooing
in a l0osely trailing
tendril connecting fragment,
piece, & sticky speck.

i join more fl0aters
hidden off in forgotten
co0l corners of history.

When the brothers K. are in
a knife fight in
their own house, we
tend to stay away.

But what if
their struggles spills,
knocking over A. lamp?
A jinn smoke signals the sky,
and a fire catches, spills.

These are row houses, built
side-by-side with adjacent thin walls
and a shared inner courtyard.

Are we ready to douse
the flames? Can we risk
the community?

In the end, we bury
chard remains, blacken flesh
because the only thing left
will be chipped bone,
and broken blade.

We bandage
an orphaned Daughter,
and steady the vacant stare
of a wobbly Son.

There is nothing we can do
for the Brothers k. It's too late
to separate them now.

Maybe if we give them guns,
the killing suicide will be faster
this thing over easier,
and the Community
razed sooner.

No. I don't need Mom's
accusatory glances, nor
Father's displaced fury.

I am morally bankrupted
and save only the house
because the family is messy,
and cheap like all families.

There is one distance or diameter through the center. There is only one D. Cir equals two pir or just pid, big D with e's pie-eating smile. If you look at e'm askant you can see how the i's drop out in a furtive way to leave only cr/p.

E wears cr/p as a badge of honor on e's tee. It's how e chooses to identify with the infinite Volume. Pir or pid, both are too circumspect. D quantifies directly, but really E's just two r or r as a diminutive D half step down.

As a minor E didn't fly. Twice promoted now, D is much happier as a major, three quarters of a Volare. E gets to fly three quarter skies with three roots dug deep, deep down twice into the sunken earth, a visceral connection to a Cantare.

.symbol

A child traces animal ghosts on a cave
wall Left
pictures we had before
our memories and youth
were in them

.family

We dig down Trees in primordial
dirt Left
hidden as roots-- a Dad our Moms
found still loving us diverging
green offshoots

The furrowed brow on an infant's
face Left
impressions within a big sister's
emerging intelligence the natural
heir

to an ancient
matriarchy Left
here full of media streams
saturated with siblings
nieces and cousins

.network

Will social constructs
connections Left
on neural networks firing
locally across our communal souls
be remembered?

It's really happening.
The leftover boxes
from the last moves
are being filled up again.

Enigmatic handwriting
across shipping tape, remnants
from another script
being lost in translation, somehow
scrawled on the wall, understood
and turned meaningless
as paper, shirt, and souvenir
change places,
coalescing in another box
or completely vanishing
behind a dividing line.

It's time to say goodbye
to so many things.
Long goodbyes,
thru work days
and youthful nights
when all added up,
too short to catch
my breath.

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?

<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 />

We're at Harvard, the same one as Bill Gates and Mark what's his Facebook, except we're not students anymore and our safety net are passing away from cancer and infection leaving us eating pizza and working long hours on things we're passionate about but if we fail we can't go home again because Love isn't there anymore to cook us delicious food that we pack back to school every weekend because she really did walk the walk and not just the talk, walking in the sand of Christ's Word she believed in so much, loving everyone even though we all have little cheats, private incentives and selfish priorities-- but really, is protecting favorite nephews from a harsh world so that we won't have Viet Minh from a forgotten war haunting our dreams, coming to get you because we're French Colonial bad brand, bad? In the end it makes no sense-- we all become practical capitalist selling catfish to a buddhist America who talks a good talk about free love trade zones but the not so hidden agenda unilaterally transfers wealth with USDA inspected protectionist condoms.

We dance on Kali's sword,
watching memories fade
away in real-time.
Dance, fool, dance.
Arms looped in arm,
we circle, chanting, holding
on to each other
as the world is cleaved,
and shaped into...
What?
Rebirth?
Redemption?
Or just plain old something new.

A chaotic whites
at least not stained red
this time too much.
We small band
looping, preserving,
what we think best
for Vishnu to fill up
the next green sprouts
with purple majesty.
RIP.

Lost and alone my thoughts fall
through seas of doubt and apprehension.
I pace across desolate hall
wanting to fill vacant chambers with fruition
And yet lacking a quick tongue
to woo my siren who walks the earth.
Lacking a sweet song when sung
will kindle a fire to heat my hearth.
I search my desert husk
For those stray, shy words to light
a bonfire against this lonesome dusk.
I search for the rush, that if right
will bring a warming voice
and soft eyes so that I may rejoice.

I'll love you till
the day I die
but I ain't living another
day with a handful
of weekend vacations
and spurts of popcorn comfortable
nights

I'll love you on
my death bed, but
I ain't your mamma

Give it to me
I'm worth it it's
you and me
in our rough *** cell

You'll  stand at my funeral
after working the most boom
***** to death
and say

I ain't sorry
I'll love you till the day I die
but I ain't your daddy

Where can I find Kali?
I have no Gold to Gamble
No body wants me
A cyclopic *******
Perhaps I can find her
In my massive consumption
of Drink<strikeout\ing\>  and Swine?

She wanted magic, not rationality.
She wanted me to prove that 1+1=2.
I don’t think she wanted an empirical proof.
I thought logically, if we assign yellow = 1;
yellow + yellow should equal yellow,
but it doesn't, it equals 2.
Next, rationally, if we assign both yellow =1 and blue =1;
yellow + blue should equal green, empirically!
Irrationally, it equals 2 too.
What 2 do, yellow or blue?
Has 1 been overloaded with two colors?
How does one, overworked carry two loads of green?

I have my breakfast
I have fool's art

I have my bass
that never learns
a slapping face
wears fine lines
between syncopated opiates
and rhythmic beats

In our Populous cities
success crescendos
to demands for a stadium
full of gladiators dying
in entertaining tragedy

We have time
We have loose change

We have youth
that imp which finds

Romans still sneak
under progressive lust
beneath beer fences
and Coliseum bleachers
with girlie giggles
and stiff speared Heroes
into history

For Gwendolyn Brooks

And with that 2023
has slid into we

Bound in leather
or some new polymer

Alloys coaxed together
Like Master and server

We Olde Tymers
We Neu! Rhymers

Fashion updaters
Swift haters

What weird magic
this that binds tragic

sado to majestic maso
a Quanto entanglo

In rusty romp we fumble
as dream walls crumble

A Sun begs for mercy
A Flower forgives

Strange entanglements
Mixing emerging flavors

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

In the Beginning,
just 1/10^1,000,000,000,000,000 second
after a Big Bang,
before Strong and Weak
segregated,
before Strings formed
from broken Circles,
Song, Dance and Word
were One.

When we dance,
when we sing,
when we write
these written words,
don't we glimpse
that 1/10^1,000,000,000,000,000 second
who's name comes
close only when
these three
whirl in me?

What is the Sparrow to me
or I to Spared sorrow be?

They like we dart
in visual space
trying not to ****
from exertive Race!

We fly on Change
loose jangling face.

Venom eyes range
with furtive cover
for succulent dress
to stripped under
talon's caress.

My friend's mother is from Belarus. Recently, she got on a plane to visit him in DC, and sat next to another Belarus woman who had never flown before. After several hours flying, they hit turbulence. The plane dropped and tumbled in pockets of dead air. The woman turned to my friend's Mom and asked,
"Have you prayed?"
"Yes" was the reply.
She nodded and then continued her stare at the vast Atlantic Ocean out the window below. After a few moments, she turned and asked,
"Do you know how to swim?"
My friend's Mom replied,
"Yes... but I'm not sure in which direction"

wearing champagne
moist circle
of green salty lips
a concrete glass
girl pierced
throbbing dirt
red bone

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

we write poems about the Sun
because long after we
are gone long after
We have changed
She will be still be here

perhaps the poems will persist
harder than any stone or
ring any steel germ
or marriage guns

perhaps the pink voices
of early morning dawn
will resonate
faster than momentum
because our measured
lyrics are lost bathing

we write warm
golden octaves hoping
the Diogenes light
will find an honest Son

Another grey, rainy day
in Somerville
maybe that's why Patsy
Cline loops back
in baby's arm
bringing back Tom
ole Brentwood roommate shortly
after OJ murdered Nicole
and Bob who wrote the song
died in 2014 but it didn't
ripple through any brook
of our shared nook

Strange

Strange how we can only tell
stories with other peoples
stream
Strange how yours still in all
my dreams

How strange

I live in a dark coal-de-sac
giving off Bonnie Tyler sparks
the Rod Stewart of loneliness,
feeling heart arch at Market Basket

I go up and down elevator
music with hooks
and loops bringing
back Ghost and Word

Modern interlacing
ritual and food
in my head and in our
breaking bread

Why do you think the feast
is movable?

Weekend food shopping;
stocking; cooking some,
but most of it,  wasted,
rotting away even with
modern coolness

It's just me. It's just she
The time is gone,
the nest is empty
wish I had something more
to say

It's just Dad visiting
every weekend
to sit with his daughter
to watch his granddaughter
play soccer

It's just Mom cooking
a minor chord meal,
nothing like the Major
meals of her missing
older Sister

It's just weekend sushi
or Pho in Simi Valley
modulating one
Key memory to another

The voices go
ghosts fade
and yet the ritualistic
love persist in my
looped head in my
OCD play
at every meal
repeatedly self cutting
our geometric thought
Elements within a Euclidean
subspace

George.Carlin.stuff
window.shopping.green
jacket.turquoise.dress
­my.our.stuff
close.2.kiss
brief.closeted.mix
somewhere.sapphire.s­hift
somehow.cerulean.drift
wish.holding.past
we.stuff.me
faded.l­eave.memory.

Cancer takes us to dinner
then ghosts me never
calling again

The anger, sadness
and disappointment
metastasizes to every
node of our social
network

In desperation we rip
me out leaving wires
frayed

Eventually, new growth cones
form and try again to connect me
with we but perhaps the two
scared ends have given up
hope

And the fibers connecting us
will fade in a slow Wallerian
walt

Cancer will never know
and never cared

What does it mean when
Our impish curiosity at forty eight
grows tired and ridiculously became
an Ancient soul at twenty three?

What is poetry heard when
Our otic form invaginates
to a nothingness shape
worthless for publication?

Who inherits money when
Our optic evagination
lives large and expands
sideways not in Academia?

When do features play at
Our theaters twenty three
weeks less computationally
intense than forty eight movies?

Where Is Rogue One seen when
Our self-organizing map
projects friends and faces
onto a understandable dimension

Our two faced goodbye, Ciao

are when hazy mornings rise
in O'Keefe's blue note
meeting our Aloha
surfing stem cells reduced
in the returning space-time
tide to a 1D-film

We have two ins but only one out

Moving, we are all in transit
stops, packing things into boxes,
thinking about where now
feeling tugs from there then.

Bubble-wrapped Indeed.
com, searching for Jobs
as we pack traces
because people move on
refusing plastic stasis.

Love the Center thing
Miss that
and miss Everything!

Love the Center thing
We miss that
We miss Everything?

Love the Center thing
if we Miss that
2e'll miss Everything#

#2e?!
@2e