The video stutters and she jitters to a halt in an intersection;
Traffic lights turn green, and the display revs up,
The Broken Egg food truck clips her heel and spark-like static fogs the screen.

His fingers, once lightly brushing over a braille textbook, freeze out.
The book lifts itself and scraps left to right under his palm.

Her professor speaks, and her lecture on Maxwell's equations propagate towards the classroom wall,
only the walls have fled with their chalkboards, and the standing waves have been left stranded
in the sudden infinite space. She has lost reflections; only direct, brute force remains.

The Truth: I wear petty images like a cloak.
The Truth: My gears tremor under the strain of life, stuck on
The Truth: I think

You'd think me stupid, a bust, and the truth is
I'd rather stand in traffic, frozen, mute and dumb,
than ask questions, intern, or learn the difficult stuff.

Secondary screens:
I'd rather write poems and post them online for strangers
than talk about chemical potentials or spherical wavefunctions.

I'd rather talk about chemical potentials and wavefunctions
than figure out what happened to my remote.

There's too much movement to feel good standing still.

public void PanicAttack(Person me){

if (!Life) return null; //Please note that no one actually dies from panic attacks! Not even me!

increaseHeartRate();
increaseBreathRate();
decreaseBreathVolume­();
setSkin("Flush");
setThoughtStream("Dear God I'm going to die. I've got to get out of here; I've got to get out of here; I've got to get out of here.");

PanicAttack(me);

}

Life is a skin disease, and I am the finger-nail's will pressed into scratching.
Life is the electronic vein under the skin of Juana's Salvese quien pueda.
Life is the loop of a record or the needle's point or the vinyl ridges

and I play and hear, and I see and taste and touch.

I feel light pass through my skin and am projected.
Life is the wall or the reel or the reacted film,
but I am the light.

I am the music.
I am the skin.

And I am the finger-nail's will
pressed into scratching.

Your story is in Spanish:
a blind man visits, eats, drinks, smokes
and searches your face with his fingers after dinner.

To feel someone's eyes upon you, you say,
is a metaphor. To feel someone's fingers
on your eyelids is also a metaphor
for truth.

Sometimes I tunnel to know how deep the clay begins,
to know "cathedral" in Spanish
to know poetry in S = KlnW
to know where I'm alone.

When you say, "Dádivas ablandan peñas," and hand me a wild cut twine, taut with a kite, I see your scarred fingers  and know

your gift is not a kite, wise with wind
but the tunnel you dug

and the stone in my hand crumbles