To my former self.:
I died today .I could not  continue
It happened in St Margaret’s nursing home
Old age ,rules my grace  rotted thru and thru
I  practiced void mind meditation too
Death was painless .No need to reincarnate
My mind void like space like a hawk -I fly
To my old life and its problems good bye.

To the living .:practice void meditation
Identify your mind with voidness
Then your karma free of devastation
Upon death you are free
Free of humanity’s state  stupidity

Old age homes liberty stunted I speak
Life force ****** out of you as leech ***** blood
Live well be healthy  nature trekking-good
Connect with all life but be unique
Else you will lose what you are-become weak

Dear Carl,

Can I call you Carl?
Our unconscious is collective and a lake of shared experience.
Is the internet an instance of your theories?
I have some queries.

Are these the facts Carl?
Our reflections are collected in a cloud of pooled intelligence.
Is the aggregate a marker of our species?
I have some theses.

Are these our thoughts Carl?
Our enquiries through our browsers hint a dull and cloudy somnolence.
Is the synthesis the same by demographic?
Is this just traffic?

Is this our worth Carl?
Our reprovals and our sledging smacks of asinine belligerence.
Can we speculate more broadly from this sample?
Trolls, for example…

We all have separate phenotypes,
made up of common archetypes,
that form a unique prototype,
for human contribution.

The flavour of each megabyte,
requires an active acolyte,
that gives objective oversight,
to tally the solution.

But what about the eloquence,
beneficence, benevolence,
the sympathetic sentience,
within this cyber-netting?

And what of interinfluence,
of conscious counterviolence,
considered, caring, congruence,
of giving more than getting?

Are you happy Carl?
Your proposals once ethereal now digitally real
—the collection of our thoughts a cyber-consciousness reveal.
Sure, we focus on crash diets, haircuts, shoes, and plastic surgery.
We are more than just a vessel for the latest celeb pregnancy.

These excuses for connection are a cybernetic basis,
for the comfort and affection found across our networked spaces.
While the electronic camera snaps the shadow and insanity,
it also frames our kindness in the brilliance of humanity.

I think it’s fine, Carl.

Sincerely,
Jill

The birds and the bees
Morning electric
Afternoon zzzz’s
Temptation is the greatest treason
I’m trying to do the all the right things for the wrong reasons
Because you and me
We were epistolary
All the poems you wrote me
Hollow letters with no ink.
You say it was fun
I know it was fate
This is the last letter
I won’t sign it with hate
But if I never see you again,
It’ll be too soon
To get close to my heart
You’ll have to rip it from the ******* moon

An artist with mad composition
A confused disposition
Double the list of failed repetitions
With pencil in hand, I looked at you.
I began.

And drew
pictures of what your insides might look like. Black and green, Strokes of yellow and tangerine
Like LA skies
I saw you in a dream
Now you’re right before my eyes
And I close. with pencil in hand
I began,
And drew
pictures of possible futures if you decided to hang
And drew
pictures of me with neatly ******* hands
Behind my back
With pencil in hand I drew your eyes looking at
Me.
Piercing
Unconditionally
If the divine did lead me
Double the reason
To have you in me
Deeply.
I had a muse I can use, with pencil in hand
I began
And drew
peaceful days with you by my side
And drew wild *** parties, ****** and chicken thighs
And drew you with me
And drew pictures of what that could mean
doesn’t matter to me
So long I see you in peace
So long I have with me
A pencil in hand, some paper
And so I began

I came to the desert far far away
in the beam of the heat to find recluse,
and hide from la ley.

with a backpack and a few dollars
I could see me
I could almost see me
free
en el otro lado

but hardship and struggle does not care
whether or not i am truly blessed,
All they saw was the color of my skin
brown and oppressed
they ordered me to undress,
if i attest
i will die
need i tell you the rest?

I came to the dessert far far away
i came with a friend
we walked all day in this last day of may.
Its truly remarkable,
what true friendship beholds
when two people help each other perserver
like they should
i suppose.

Dear,

A lot has changed in the last year and a half
since the day God decided to scoop you up from our ember-warm hometown
and swallow you whole about sixty years earlier than any of us would have ever prayed for.
We would have all given up our one gold-embellished chance to write the center-spread
ecstatically collected our own blood and sweat and knuckles met with writers-cramps
if that meant watching wrinkles sprout permanently across your forehead
roots of trees burying themselves into the grooves of your smile lines.
We would have sacrificed all that hard-earned pain
that stain issues one through four
and that old putrid-beige colored couch
that we hated so much but clandestinely found comfort in leaning our heavy heads on still
in the crook of its homely, familiar shoulder
thinking that we were Shakespeare's apprentices
through fluttering eyelids
creating clusters of words that had to have been New York Times worthy—we were sure
although we knew the furthest we could really go is the furthest your laugh could carry across a room
and that's still pretty far—we could all spit shake and swear—
because I can still hear it sometimes all the way down here
where each tendon in my body is capable of feeling solidity
where I am haunted by uhtceare, wondering if you're too cold
where halos don't exist outside of dreams
not even when the sun is a cracked egg and dripping onto tables, the roofs of cars
not even then is anything brighter than the whites of your lively eyes
and I think you'd like to know that we're still thinking about you
that I can't think about white anymore without thinking about the vulgarity of bathtubs
and your hate for poems that include contractions—I'm sorry I've let you down
but I think you'd like to know that I've finally stopped having nightmares
and even the thinnest-skinned of us all, you know which one,
has been able to convince himself that the embrace of the Earth
just isn't the place for you anymore
that you've already outgrown all of us at fifteen-years-old
and we're sorry for not believing sooner that poetry can save the world.