resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions

translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw

crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression

drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille

depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols

making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe

relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?

increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation

lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes

more than we can write. erase
and unpick the seams. words tarry,
waver and leave this place, this room,

scuttle back into corners. sweep the house clean,
cross the words and know that when the time is right,
they will come again, dripping from fingers,
folded , torn, photographed in plenty.

wondered about misspelling, maybe
missed the point?

sbm.

Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of ****, backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.

Without kneeling, without the sign of the cross
without self-examination
her worn keyboard becomes a confessional.
Lithe fingers tap, tap, tap out
secrets in lines of tasted desires
and opened dark doors.
With a series of deletions and replacements, key by key,
bolstered by the fervor of the moment
tales of her recent transgressions emerge.
Like a cat leaping toward it's victim
her index finger punches the enter key
as details of her indiscretions, come to rest on-line
as obvious as hunters' prey in an open field.  

Cyberspace, like a priest without a collar,
accepts her admissions without the comfort of absolution
still her guilt is released.

and unfortunately,
after multiple unfollows
after multiple dislikes
after multiple blocks
after multiple deletions
after multiple “it’s over”

some feelings will never go away
any my mind will always wonder “what if?”

robot is both

a wood block
some stickers

you know how it goes

then batteries are a thing
with their unexpected deletions

or should we mean depletion

i imagine is nice out cycling
with another

sharing experiences

It's well-known,
The younger you are,
The better your memory.
You refute.
I agree to your exceptions.
You agree they have less to remember.
We laugh, but know it to be true.
Our memory is full.
I unintentionally delete memories.
I don't get to decide how to make room.
The younger you are the more space you have.
The more empty cells, you quip.
Little vacuums, I add.
Wanting to be filled.

I make an exception.
Some cells are memory dedicated;
Protected from the sub-conscious decision-making process that is responsible for deletions...

I saw To Sir With Love
Over five decades ago (perhaps you know it).
I can't tell you which delinquent said,
Blimey, red blood!
When Thackery cut his hand.
I didn't care when I was thirteen
What the difference was between
Empowering teachers,
And overpowering teachers;
No!
But I recall the colour of racism
In the drama
On Thackery's face.

She doesn’t like to hear “I need you”
It’s difficult for her to say “I miss you”
She’s afraid that “I miss you” means that one of us
Can’t be without the other and she’s nothing if not independent

She says, “you should be okay alone.”
She says,  “you shouldn’t be afraid to lose me.”

I want to say “You shouldn’t be afraid to have me”
Love, when I’m holding you close, running my fingers across the soft curve of your arm
I feel the warmth blossom in me and my lips pour a waterfall of details and compliments
I want to make you feel as if you’re like nothing else in this entire universe

I don’t say
We are all the same

I spent my childhood being alone
I know how to count the cracks in my bedroom floor
The way you count up ways to improve and strengthen
Your steadfast mind
Build a wall that you can always go back to jump behind
I admire you

I learned when I was about nine years old that I don’t need to be alive

When I’m sad, I don’t try to fix myself
I was born onto a snow graced mountaintop on the verge of avalanche
I’m not afraid to shed a tear or two

You say, “Challenge yourself. How can you escape the dark parts of your mind?”
I want to say, “these days, it doesn’t feel so dark. Lately, they feel like thoughts. Lately, the only thing that differentiates sticks and stones from words is how other people perceive them.”

The dark that you see is a blanket
I wove it from the tatters of my ripped up sleeves, rubbed thin from nervous habit
I spun the hair that unplanted itself from my head like wilted flowers into rows of golden thread
I presented my heart, still beating, in two of my hands
And I laid it onto the heap, it doesn’t care if it’s scarred and neither do I
My darkness
Is the warmest thing I know

When I tell you I love you and point out every detail of you that makes me swoon
That makes my heart beat faster
That makes me smile
When I tell you I love you, I cry
And you always say that you love that
You say you love that I’m so attached to my emotions
That I’m not afraid to show it

When I tell you I love you,
I tap into the dark recesses of my mind
That you are afraid to look too closely at

And sometimes
The tears flood out like a leaky faucet
And I know that if you knew
You’d likely call it broken
Broken walls that I was supposed to be building like you do
Broken windows I should’ve been boarding up
I don’t tell you
When I tell you I love you,
I think of the fading scars stretched across my arms
Like cross outs and deletions in poems I’ve written
That don’t make sense anymore
I think of angry shouts and toppled chairs
Broken glass and locked slammed doors
I think of the whole world turning
For no one in particular
I think about how nothing matters
Nothing matters
Nothing matters
And it doesn’t matter
Because we matter

Because when your smile hits the sparkle in your crystal blue eyes
I know that over a million places I could’ve been at this point
This was the lucky one
And I’m here
To smile
To laugh
To cry
And sometimes I feel like I was built to be nothing
And then all the sudden, I don’t care
Because even the smallest nothing
Could have always been the world to me

I’m not afraid to want you
I’m not afraid to miss you
I’m not afraid to love you
I’m not afraid to love you

I’m proud
After everything
I have a blanket
And not a wall