We were drinking ourselves
into the grave.
I escaped temporarily.
Greg didn't.
He was crossing a
busy street in Iowa City.
In his baggy, ***** jeans
was a bottle of ***** that
he had just lifted.
I'm guessing he was in
too big a hurry to
"get well" and knock
off the shakes.
A minivan ran him down.

Before the ***** wrecked him,
he was a lawyer, and a pretty
**** good golfer.
But what I remember the
best were our days at Prairie
Meadows, playing the ponies.
We cashed a few winning
tickets together, and
tore up some losers too.

God bless you, little buddy.
You're on the homestretch now.

I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
.
A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]

Some shapers of mankind, the generally intelligent
tool making creatures making art for art's own sake.

Fixing mind and matter,
mixing now with how and why,

knowing from experience why is not a factor.

------------------------------------------

Mistaken grace, lucky chance, living in 2025
anywhere with survivable weather,
and flowing water to carry away filth,

pay attention, this is why we dig new courses
human events start getting too easy attracts flys

-------------------- 2

Image imagined, seed
form preformed per chance,

a thought, one with you and I
in it for the minute we were passing

I saw you, I think you glanced.

Hello, is this that plan of love, the God
of all the goodness ever invested in kings,
whose proprietary ordination empowers
the sword granted … whereby to rule

to the glory of absolute authority, and law?

Or is this core memory aching, akin
to kindness feeling second hand shame

mostly for the fine Babylonish garment…
----------------------- 4

Customary process, central casting,

fishing for mindforms, mental being things,
essence of otherwise, tutelary chronicles,

proverbs and bywords, warnings and courage,
core rational portion from the produce pursued.

Literary realms, creations formerly used,
to attract a curious sort of personage,

storage, stacks and stacks and stacks of books,
accessible… by chance, by my own good graces
sakes taken alive,
in time, ink thinking, clouds of knowing, gracious
sakes alive, indeed, who could ever even imagine

such a time as mine. Me, the author and finisher,
of my own reverent worth, in terms of uses made

of things I made up.

Guesses, guessed again, and again, reasons used
rations consumed, lacunae and palimpsests,
who sweeps away the ideas invested
in ploys for fishing men, the working mind kind,

writer ready honed most point, practically,

perfect middle being, in terms imaginably infinite.

Average day on Earth,
depends on connecting strands,
boomer children in rural America
emperically accepted radio as natural.

True, think back, watch headlines and hit parades,
and roll back to the Arkansas that prospered,
Tyson chicks and Perdue feed, chicken sheds
rental, 'swhat we got, and all the chickens we et.

-------------------- 16

Industrialized agriculture,
terraforming Earth, some wise,
ways and wise al ways was one idea,
right ways and wrong ways one idea, true

right is the hand that writes, or throws, or hits.

From the center, which, despite poetic otherwise,
does hold and emanate mental imagining in letters.

Let us leave off judgement, guaging worth in time,
or frontal cortex costs on each beat through old arteries,

Leave well enough alone. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Who needed such a proverb, as a child?
Who benefits from letting this mind seem, literal,
words in sequence intending happening actual
re always as one thinks one is happens
to seem coincidents, ala, I knew it!
I was just thinking about death,
and wham, I thought about somebody
dead, because it's
in the news memorialized, that day, we all,
you all knew, as I did, dead poets, distractions,
look away, child, look away, do not behold
old drunk Noah confessing his dismissal,

how Ham offended the exceptionalist Model A,
after the admixture of Tubal and Jubal in Naaman,
Sybils all the wives on the ark, carried the talent 2.0
hnnnhmmhnn who knew first, hmmmm
in the red tent tellings, whose smiles
became signals known only to wombed men,
re veil the nobel lie, call it novel, new autism 3.0
singing stories did occur,
with no words, no spelling,
birds not too distant, up
in the tree we wonder under.

Then if Eve had been En'eduana,
should we wonder
who invented secret messages seeming let be
good, new thing,
new experimental evidence,
we see, all at once
on ten thousand streams
a second,
at our own experiential can you
act as if may were always your word

imagine, how the internet was intended to function,
can your ontology logically link Turing and Von Neuman
via Genesis to the last verse in Revelation?

Imagine, that. After a pause,
a sprite speaks softly yes.

The excuse
for Babel, was written
after Babel was pre-served,
all that was of any merit, deemed
all after must hold true as written
selected… from the smelting ***, ore,
stone stew bubblin' in m' soul, iron core

after all, as were all, save a certain immensely
exceptionalist form of groupmind conservation

be very sure, we're saying mere what if, say

Mohammed was described as saying, truth. He said
Eber's language, ever being so very certain truth works,
-- secrets kept from children for no true good reason,
-- some things are right better in secret, sacred is that…
-- just between us, oops, better re alized public worth
truth, used, makes free… so what
body bound, Earth bound, carnal mindshare industry
entertaining strangers, unawares, prime message…
brought before your meaning seeking mind, may
is might in first person,
may is your word now,
is that legal to believe/ ;awinker init.

256 ----------------------- on time paid a bit
attention's worthit init, having some t'pay it wit'


--------------------- saved to exit

From- any instance,
any at all, instantly once, whence
any stored ad libs liberally worship

sharing a valuing system, worth's measures
made kid friendly, no lying allowed, local true
prodigies, spelling contest winners who knew
eureka means, I found it, eu is joy, the emotion.

Now, remind those living after 2025, anywhere,
not Mars, that, we may as well imagine doing here,
recovering life on Earth, before our usefulness expires.

Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.

This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.

We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.

Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.

I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).

Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
.
.
Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings

Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
it flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”

It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
and signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.

We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors, like the
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.

The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.

Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.

Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
.
.
Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic