rain drained down
upon us cold
paraded away our labours
pegged at out bare backs
and showboated us all
as temporary
reactive
and lacking in good humour

i’ve turned it all off and plugged in
uploading memories to the cloud
wonder if it ever rains

if the fog clears would you see my life encoded within the atmosphere?

can emotions be
interpreted into code?

what would be my algorithm?

tell me,
how is it that
numbers can be played back as music?

is it actually music?

really, it’s just sounds bouncing about everywhere.


so many numbers,
so many words,
so many letters
in this world...so


does my little code



even matter?

Numbing sends me crashing to pieces,
lungs fill up before I can scream,
light diminishes into darkness,
substance entered but refuses to release.

Colors now white flashes,
blood dips beneath my chest,
nobody's coming i have no contacts,
only my mothers ashes.

In my mind walls keep me bound,
with water soon to drown,
messed up broken needs a fix,
gotta break this glass so confound.

As water starts to over submerge,
a pulse breaks the glass setting me free,
opening my eyes these people standing before me,
weeping a funereal they all have to purge.

Still cannot speak but now can cry,
knowing people actually care,
never again shall I take a substance,
that costed me a near a goodbye.

For this next to me is a plug,
which might end up getting pulled,
even with my eyes open,
without movement they might just be misunderstood.

I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.

I plug in the
vacuum cleaner
to **** it up
and see  
if it disappears
into a bag
that holds
everything
that is black
and blue.

Smiling in this moment of love,
pollen brings alleges.
A sneeze pressures
her secret to fall
with a clang.

Vibrating *******, blushful innocence revoked.

...and 'oh my God' did I cry
I sparked like I was made of knives
and it carried me
I was adopted
It took me and I gave up me
easily
This had become dimensional
Life seamed
I was played
I was playing
I was addressing reasoning
and burying it fiercely and fare
Pounding clay over it
and enhancing my surroundings
content and without trust
Restart
Welled and sad
Sick excited
A primal plug
Connected