Love in the time of LEDs



“Honey, I’m just not feeling it”.
She said this to me, constantly.

“The moon and the stars and the planets
sing to me, an orchestra of nature and
eternal time intertwined.”

“Mother nature directing this divine symphony.”

“These new lights just don’t do it for me.”

We traveled here and traveled there,
over many a year.

Then one night ,
One full harvest moon night,

High on a cliff,
Deep in the night,
Silent and still and cold,

She shed every stitch that covered her frame
And opened her arms to the celestial rain.

Rays from heaven pouring down,  
illuminating her shape,
saturating Earth’s lovely ground.

Dancing about,
With not a trace of restraint,

The moon and stars and the night
Sang to her soul,
Sang to every fiber of her being,
Sang to her every bone.

‘You see, Mother Nature knows the cycles that feed the soul.’ she whispered to me, in her soft and sultry voice.

Watching, transfixed, drawn into the dance,
surrounded by stars twinkling,
Milky Way flowing,

Waking from this trance,
I tapped out a message,
read it aloud,

I QUIT!

I quit selling LEDs and the bright artificial lights.
I quit this nightmare of a job!
I quit this life of a thief,
this one of stealing the stars!
I quit this very night!

I threw my smart phone over the cliff,
each article of clothing removed,
following quick.          

I stood bare under the moon,
Bare under the stars,
Bare under the planets
And  bare to Mars.

Well?  I asked hesitantly,
hope having dimmed for so many a year.

‘We’ll see.’ she replied to me

A tiny smile appearing upon her lips,
A small promising twinkle coming to her eye,

For the first time in all these many years.


For the first time my heart leapt,
beating with this hint of hope,
beating with joy,

under this majestic,
star studded,
inky black,
huge moon filled,
cold,
silent,
magical,
night sky!

Feline Love in the time of LEDs


“Honey, I’m just not feeling it”.
I said this silently to her, constantly.

“The moon and the stars and the planets
sing to me, an orchestra of nature and
eternal time intertwined.”

“Mother nature directing this divine symphony.”

“These new lights just don’t do it for me.”

Finally she noticed,
the great change in my mood,
feeling something amiss,
something terribly, terribly amiss.

She packed us up,
and into the caravan we went.

Rustic canvas over our heads,
wood burning stove next to our bed.

Ah, finally the life of traveling the paths,
living by the light of the fire,
the gentle descending of the night.

Tuned into mother nature’s time,
soft, peaceful and divine.

We traveled here and traveled there,
over many a year.

Then one night ,
One full harvest moon night,

High on a cliff,
Deep in the night,
Silent and still and cold,

She shed every stitch that covered her frame
And opened her arms to the celestial rain.

Rays from heaven pouring down,  
illuminating her shape,
saturating Earth’s lovely ground.

Dancing about,
surrounded by stars twinkling,
Milky Way flowing,
With not a trace of restraint,

The moon and stars and the night
sang to her soul,
sang to every fiber of her being,
sang to her every bone.

‘You see, Mother Nature knows the cycles that feed the soul.’ I  whispered to her,
in my softly purring voice.

‘This is what I have been trying to tell you for all these years.’

Waking from this trance,
She tapped out a message,
read it aloud,

I QUIT!

I quit designing LEDs and the bright artificial lights
that destroy the glorious night.

I quit this nightmare of a job!
I quit this life of a thief,
this one of stealing the stars!
I quit this very night!

That is,
unless I’m allowed to design the
smart dark-sky friendly lights
that I so love now,
that bring such subtle delight.


She threw her smart phone over the cliff,
this device hurtling down so quick,  
shaking the very earth with each bounce to the ground.

As she stood bare under the moon,
Bare under the stars,
Bare under the planets
And bare to Mars.

For the first time in so many a year,
I jumped up sinuously,
right up,
straight into her arms.

Startled,
she laughed with such joy,
hugging me close,
so close and so near.

My lovely silky fur,
warming her frame,
warming her heart.

Snuggled so close
and snuggled so tight,

I purred once again
out loud on this night,
in absolute delight.

The ground rumbled beneath
the two of us,

shaking and quaking
the earth so near.

The stars up above
twinkled with joy,
at this sight of loving tight.

Dancing overhead,
streaking through across the sky,
celebrating on this night,

one more little human
remembering again,
the magic and mystery,
of the black sparkling night,
spreading out forever above.

We danced together under the
rejoicing stars,
holding each other tight.

My sweet, now smart,
little human
and me.


~ the Feline

In my Times column Thursday, I reviewed a new generation of LED light bulbs. They last 25 times as long as regular bulbs, use maybe one-eighth the electricity, work with dimmers, turn on instantly to full brightness and remain cool to the touch. A big drawback has always been cost, but now, I noted, the prices have fallen.

This column generated a lot of reader e-mail, probably because LED represents change. And change is always scary. Here are some excerpts, with my responses.
FDDP
The Times’s technology columnist, David Pogue, keeps you on top of the industry in his free, weekly e-mail newsletter.
Sign up | See Sample


* For LED bulbs, the biggest issue that most consumers will notice is the color. You correctly point out that you can get different colors, and also different shades of white, from warm white, to cool white, to daylight. However, not all white is the same. Two bulbs, both of which measure 2700K (warm white) color may create a completely different impression in the room.

The difference is C.R.I. (Color Rendering Index). Incandescent bulbs have a C.R.I. of 100. Really bad LEDs have a C.R.I. of 50; average ones (most of them) have a C.R.I. of 80 to 85. The really good ones have C.R.I.’s above 90.

C.R.I. is a way of expressing how many colors in the rainbow are actually contained in the white light. Incandescent bulbs contain every color in the rainbow, all in equal measure.

With LED bulbs that have low C.R.I.’s, the color of objects looks wrong, and everything “feels” ghostly. It is not a subtle effect.

Wow. Well, I’d never heard of C.R.I., and it certainly isn’t listed on the package.

I can say only that I’m completely happy with the light color of the Cree bulbs. They look nothing like the weak, diluted light of the compact fluorescents they’re going to replace. I don’t perceive anything ghostly or wrong about them.

But if you’re worried about C.R.I, maybe try out one bulb at home before you replace the whole house’s bulbs.

* Why I don’t have LED bulbs: I have yet to see one that puts out close to the same lumens of an incandescent bulb rated at 75 or 100 watts offered for sale in my area.

Many of you made this point: that the 40- and 60-watt bulbs I reviewed are not bright enough for aging eyes, reading, detail work and so on.

That really is a good point. You can buy 75- and 100-watt-equivalent LED bulbs — online, they’re plentiful — but they’re still expensive ($30 to $45 each).

* At my home, CFLs don’t last half as long as stated on the box, and when CFL electronics flame out, they leave that nasty burnt electronics smell, strongly disliked by my wife. A few friends have reported CFL flame outs that have set things on fire.

Sorry to hear that! However, my column was about LED lights, not compact fluorescent light bulbs. Compact flourescents are basically curlicue tubes filled with gas that lights up. LED bulbs use tiny light-emitting diodes, of the type you have seen in some flashlights and the “flashes” of smartphones.

* Why didn’t you write up the LIFX bulbs on Kickstarter? Are you some kind of paid shill for the light-bulb industry?

Mainly, because I hadn’t heard about LIFX bulbs. Now I have!

Looks like it’s a lot like the Philips Hue kit I reviewed, in that these are LED bulbs you can control from a phone app: brightness, timing and color. The beauty of LIFX, though, is that there’s no router box required. The networking electronics are right in the bulb.

And the LIFX does more, too: changes color in time to the music, for example, or notifies you when you have new e-mail.

These bulbs did super-well on Kickstarter, so they’ve obviously captured the public’s imagination. I’m in touch with the creators, and they’ve promised to send me one to try out when it becomes available!

* You have done what many before have done: Praise LED light bulbs — without touching on the quality of light.

It doesn’t matter whether the light bulb is $200 or 50 cents. If the light is ugly, and it hurts your eyes to read, then why should I buy it?

Compact fluorescent lights have an austere blue tinge. Some give a “warmer” shade of yellow. But the quality of light they produce is atrocious.

I did, in fact, mention the quality of light; in my opinion, it’s wonderful. You can choose “daylight” (whiter) or “warmer” (yellower). With some, like the Philips, you can dial up any color you like: white with a touch of blue or yellow, say.

But I’m not sure why we keep talking about compact fluorescent lights. LED technology is completely different. There is zero relationship between a compact fluorescent light bulb’s light quality and LED’s light quality.

* You neglected an important point: because of heat issues, you’re not supposed to put LED bulbs into enclosed fixtures, like ceiling “cans.”

Actually, I asked Cree specifically about this. The representative says the bulbs are fine in ceiling cans. “The Cree LED bulb can be used in any application that would use an incandescent bulb. As long as there is an opportunity for air to circulate, the bulb is designed to work properly.”

I’m aware that not all bulbs meet this criterion; I’ve seen warnings on 3M and Philips bulbs, for example, not to use them in ceiling cans.

* Is there a potential issue with RF (radio frequency) interference from the circuitry? I know someone who put the LED bulbs in his garage door opener and then had trouble with the remote control.For more information, please visit cree led flashlight

I must look like a train-wreck to everyone at this party. Emaciated-chic melting into the couch with shaky hands and sweaty palms has never looked good on anyone. I can’t tell if the bass pounding from the stereo has seeped through my skin or if my heart has turned into a battering ram, using all of its power to break through my sternum. You think I would have learned after all these years-- benzos and ***** are never a good combination. But I still have at least fifty bucks to make at this party off of over-privileged, toxin-craving youth. Besides, it’s a bearable feeling, and I can just sleep it off on the couch here tonight.
       I survey the room, attempting to remember where the stairs to the basement were located. After forcing my drooping eyelids to stay open, I watch a parade of lax bros make their way up the stairs and into the kitchen. They are a mess of scrawny limbs floating in pinnies and their air-filled heads are capped off with snapbacks. Their smugness is laughable and mostly, if not entirely, induced by massive amounts of *******. Please. The only reason people show up to this dump is because of the free ***** and the always-entertaining fight that is guaranteed to happen by the end of the party. Even then, the crowd is mostly freshmen, and they just don’t know any better.
       A booming yooooo crashes down the staircase and stumbles towards me. I refrain from rolling my eyes.
       “Hey, you!” I have no idea who this is.
       “Whatchyew got tonight?” asks the greasy manchild with a few scraggly hairs bursting out of his chin.
       “Depends on what you’re looking for,” I respond, wishing I had worn something other than an oversized sweater and leggings. You shouldn’t hide everything in your cleavage.
       “How much you want for the zannies?”
       Hoping to never see this scumbag again, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to scare him off by jumping the price to seven bucks a bar. But before I can even grab the plastic bag out of my bra, I’m momentarily blinded by piercing red and blue LEDs out the window.
       “Aw, shiiiit,” he says as he races toward the back door.
       I struggle out of the crevice in the couch and calmly follow the manchild, pushing my way through the crowd by the door. My car is waiting patiently for me in the cul de sac, and once I get past the herd of screaming freshmen, I’ll be in the clear. Anyone will move if you start throwing elbows directly into their ribs. It’s a nice party trick to use when the cops show up.
       I’m able to make it onto the back porch, but I can’t seem to find the strength that is located in my legs. My strong limbs have been replaced by jellyfish tentacles. I grab onto the railing of the steps, but I learn quickly that it’s not going to help. I trip over my feet, the stairs, the air, everything, until I am able to lean heavily on the driver’s side of my car.
       The booming yooooo reappears.
       ******* it. I can’t deal with this kid right now.
       “I just gotta text that the cops are on their way back here. Better get out.”
       ****. I face the car and begin to fumble with my keys. While I attempt to find the one that will open this machine, I listen to the wail of sirens a few streets down. I finally retrieve it, but I realize by the time I start the car and head towards home, the cops will be here, and I can’t ruin my spotless record. The knee-high hedges lining the circle would never be able to completely cover me, and every other house on this street looks unfamiliar. I press a small, blue button and hear a pop in the back. Normally at this time, my common sense would **** in and tell me that the trunk of a car isn’t exactly a good place to hide, but I’m starting to feel the cold through the numbness. And the last thing I want to deal with is explaining to my parents how their angel has taken herself off of her meds to make some extra cash.  Better get comfortable, I guess.
       I lumber into the trunk, thankful that there are at least some blankets left over from the last time I went camping with my family. Breathing heavily, I pull the lid behind me. From here, several familiar voices grow frantic and demanding: Dump that **** now... Get rid of it... I don’t care how much you spent, I’m not getting caught with it... I roll gently onto my side, careful not to shake the car, only to rediscover the plastic bag filled with Xanax.
       I freeze when I hear cars pull up nearby. The crash of heavy metal doors boom through the hectic sounds of the people trying their hardest to get out of the way. I listen to the rough growl of a sturdy boot as it kicks aside pieces of broken glass and plastic cups.
       “You think that after the fourth time we’ve busted this house, they would get the hint,” says a stern officer. I imagine him as they type with a faded buzz cut, bulging muscles, and aviator sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight.
       “Well, kids will be kids,” says a more seasoned member of the law. He sounds like my grandfather and has probably seen more terrifying images than an underage girl in skimpy clothing puking in a nearby flowerbed. It seems as though the stern officer is herding the party-goers towards the back of the patrol car.
       “That’s no excuse,” says Stern Cop.
       “So you’re telling me that you never went to a party or had a beer before you turned 21?”
       “Well, that’s different. I was in control.”
       Hearing your rights sounds much less dramatic in real life than it does on TV. For these underage drinkers, it’s a sped-up process that is muffled by their own sobs. The metallic clink of handcuffs echoes through the air and immediately hushes everyone. Soft Cop chuckles and gently closes the door, attempting not to startle the shaken-up criminals.
       I am finally able to exhale as a car drives away, but I don’t feel as if I’ve gotten away with anything. I shift onto my back and look up at the roof of the trunk, illuminated by the blue-green light of my cell phone. Glancing down at the screen, I see the time: 1:47 a.m. I’m going to have to venture out into the world eventually.
       As I gather my strength and roll towards the trunk release, I feel my keys in my pocket along with a tiny click. Immediately, my car begins to scream. I scramble for my keys, hoping that no one is here to witness the embarrassing mess I’ve made of myself. Once I finally get the car to calm down, I hear an intoxicating mix of chuckles and mild profanities strung together. It’s Soft Cop. He knows.
       “Is everything alright in there?” asks Soft Cop as he knocks on the trunk.
       What am I supposed to say? Yeah, everything’s fine. Just chillin’ out here. No worries.
       “Uh... yes, sir. Just give me a moment.”
       I unlock the trunk and start push it upwards, but Soft Cop has managed to get to it first. He is a tall, thick man with a glorious salt-and-pepper colored mustache. His soft eyes look tired like a basset hound’s. I see his name-tag–– G. Lewis. He looks like a Gary.
       “Didjya get a little stuck?” he asks.
       “Yeah.” I smile and try not to let my nervous laugh creep through.
       Gary looks around the cul de sac and back into the trunk, reaching his chubby fingers towards me. As he helps me out, I notice that he’s a lot stronger than he looks.
       “Sorry for breaking up the party tonight. Have fun?” he asks, tilting his head towards me, eyes curious and comforting.
       “For a little. I didn’t get to stay very long.”
       He nods his head towards my car. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he chuckles, “how’d you wind up in there?”
“I guess I just got scared. I didn’t want to get in trouble for being here.”
       Gary finds this amusing and swears that by now, every other cop has left the area. He explains that he’s been left to make sure nothing starts back up. He shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks around an empty Miller Lite can.
       “Listen, I can tell you’ve been drinking.” His voice has changed. I know this tone. This is the tone of Your Mother and I both love you very much, and we’re not mad. We’re just disappointed. He looks me straight in the eyes, concern written all over his face. “Correct?”
       There’s no point lying to him, but who wants to be the one throw themselves under the bus? I’m trying to put the words together, but all I can manage is incoherent babbling.
       “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he insists. “I just don’t want you driving away in this state. You seemed to have a hard time finding the steering wheel.” A smirk emerges on his face, eventually growing in size to a radiating smile. He’s proud of that one.
       “Yeah, I guess I could take a nap in the backseat.”
       “How about I just drop you off at your house. You can pick up your car in the morning. Sound like a plan?”
       “Yes, sir.”
       We look at each other for a second. No thank you is needed. No more words are necessary. I relax my shoulders and look up at the clear sky. I feel the wind blow, and I don’t seem to mind the biting December wind.
       “Didn’t bring a coat?” asks Gary.
       “Didn’t match my outfit.”
       “You sound just like my granddaughter.” He laughs. “You even have the same blonde hair and big green eyes. It’s uncanny.”
       He then stops and looks down on the ground, eyes growing wide and serious. I know what he’s looking at. I was hoping he wouldn’t see my stash that is now laying on the street: eight white pills in a plastic sandwich bag, sweaty from making a quick escape from under my sweater.
       Gary sighs and lets his lips purse, still looking at the bag. The salt-and-pepper mustache takes over his mouth. He gathers his hands on his hips, shoulders hunching forward. He stays like this as I avoid the opportunity to make eye contact. After drawing some air into his lungs, he finally has the courage to look up with sullen and wet eyes.
       “Well,” he says as he regains his composure. He kicks the bag into a nearby storm grate. “Let’s get you home.”

Oh Darling,
don't sanctify me as a higher being,
your salvation out of your rut.
the world is a green moist sponge,
and I am just another dihydrogen oxide molecule trapped
in it's fibers
crying for salvation
screaming for baptization
waiting for nothing
and although you think in binary terms.
I think in decimal
and yet
we are the stigma
of the guy
and the gal
in this dream of dreams.
a heiress of confession
I am here
surreal and every single inch
made out of stardust
to remind you...
Remember Montague
and the frosted lake?
where we built the blanketfort
among the trees
for the child
and lit her world
with dazzling LEDs,
as she stared in the tent
higher than fools
talking nonsense words
about the world
and her feelings
because she's so sad
and because she's so mad
because no one cares
except her
and her watering eyes.
she says.
I have no one.
And you can't do anything about it, starwhale
because that's the way I like it.

It’s a hot summer afternoon, perfect in every way,
A time to enjoy and relax, loll about and play.

But the afternoon’s long shadow of darkness makes it clear,
That for a particular group of students, disaster is near.

And this unfortunate bunch march into a hot class that noon,
With filled stomachs and eyes full of blissful slumber,
But still, there is a sense of impending doom in the air, and soon
The class will have to face up to a nightmare they fear.

Then at half past one a man walks in,
He smiles and says,“ good afternoon, class, lets begin!!”

The sir then starts his physics lecture,
Much to the students agony and dismay,
And while they curse and snarl silently like a mangled cur,
They wish they had never lived to see this day.

And in no time the teacher sends out a barrage,
Of “physics”, from lasers to parallel rays, characteristics of a coherent light source,
Reflection, Wein’s displacement, sinusoidal wavefronts and an electron’s charge,
He shouts his voice out till he goes hoarse.

I too, as part of that class, try,
To make sense of the gibberish spoken,
But its hopeless, I give up with a sigh,
I doubt his explanation could be understood by the smartest of men…

And in the sweltering heat of the afternoon, with the lecture being a bore,
The students just can’t listen to him, but can certainly do a lot more…

And within minutes of the lecture the class is in its own world,
Where life by quantum physics is not obscured…

Boys start throwing paper pellets at one another,
While mocking the teacher behind his back,
Meanwhile the girls giggle and nudge each other,
Laughing at the jokes they crack.

And oblivious to all that is going on around him,
The teacher goes on to say why the LEDs glow dim.

And I am caught, in a whirl,
Of various activities all around me,
And while I pen down a poem, think about my favorite girl,
I am amazed at the sight I do see…

The class becomes more and more unruly, falling apart,
And at a certain point it is too much and hence,
The sir stops talking about the critical value, and does start,
To take the class’s attendence.

No sooner is the roll call done that the herd stampedes out,
With many a push, a yell and a shout.

The same phenomena will occur again next week,
Isn’t it an example of college life at it’s peak?...

As tha vinyl goes round and round
Put my vocals on the sound
Make minds astound
Like they blazed a pound
spiritually buried in a ground
Many awaited so many hated debated
But ya only created
A bigger badder mc flawless the rawest
To ever touch a beat leave ya off ya feet
Ya in high heels drink Dom P no spills
Ice chills windmills sittin' on the 22s rims
Tilted brim far for slim lights dim
Smoke sessions prepare for the aggression
When fools hear my sound they'll start a recession
Lyrically insane off my brain
No pain no gain pushin' weight in differ states made estates hold ya pate
Cuz it's bound to get popped off ya soft
As Doughboy check my rhyming ahoy
Gettin' girlies made joy don't act coy
My apparatus the baddest yours the saddest
A **** without Gladys
I'm on the Midnight train to Georgia
Got some led for ya
Caps I peelin' more than onions
Leavin' nigguhs holy like funions
Funk baby born in the eighties
I'm the shadiest of the shady
Hate me now but it's all gravy
Burnin' emcees like Monks thai skunk
Put the funk
In my mind always on the grind
Watch for one time and I'm
Never gonna die from this
Respect ya royal highness
Check my pedigree ya gonna wanna
re-re-re rewind this







****** stop pretendin'
The masquerade is over
I thought David Porter told ya
The massacre just begun
When my guns bust fools begin to run
Into four-corner hustlers street jugglers
And stick up mugglers
Bounce my **** I'm the hardest to hit
Guard ya **** this a blow harder than Tyson
Sweep up the street call me Dyson Slicin'
Competition to pieces for stereo thesis
As my brain increases droppin' feces
That cant eradicate or debate
End up bitin' they own death date
Ivs' pumpin' from the leds dumpin'
Blood clots bumpin' body humpin'
This is a take over I don't pull til the nut is over
Never see me sober refer to me as Jehovah
Positionin' plots when emcees touch the spot
End up mad shot???
Askin' who shot ya? Nobody knows
It's the Htown ****** raw and hyper
160 kills with out the trickle of a sweat
I make more threats than a terrorist
George Bush couldn't even stop it
Mass mayhem slam opponent til they open
Dilate pupils after the loot principle
***** tricks haters can *******
Neck slit now ya can't talk ****
No love I'm in it Cuz im greedy
Don't feed the needy I'm black as Nefertiti
Yall can't see me
Even if yall wanted too
Chumps talkin' like they smoke me
But I'll have stunned more than Haitian Voodoo



And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless *******, in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.

there's basically
no difference between
clouds and fog, and
thunderstorms and reduced visibility
have both put the fear of God in me;
loving you is all
pain and lust, interchangeable,
interchangeable. slippery
squealing synthesizers, aching
for your touch and
dying to throw these
LCDs and LEDs and private
snapchats into the Recycle
Bin,
and I am glittering in the dark, swerving
across the median, drunk driving
on the thought of seeing you just a little
sooner than never.

This sadness never ends. Parade of Scars.
A broken glass, broken hands.
Concrete walls, a soldierhead,
the memories will trick you.
A ritual of ghosts, angels of death,
attitude adjustment, auto-inflicted destruction.
Forceful behavior leds to the blackest tears,
empty eyes, empty minds,
prosthetic minds of fear and greed.
Live the American dream, unleash the ultimate scream!
Man spricht Deutsch
und die Alarme begann zu läuten.
Warum?
This could be anywhere in the world,
march on the kingdom of the dead,
we came to conquer!
Live the American dream, unleash the ultimate scream!
Carriers of the plague,
everything invaded, redemption.
This time's for real,
why do you tell me all these lies?
My patience is getting shorter
and killing you is killing me.
We stand as one, harvest, sacrifice...

on cloudless days we besmirch the suns reign
the spirit hankers for Autumn
the baltic coast apposite
launches thy being by the northern skies,
a trinity of light  leds to the caucasus plains
to reveal Edens gardens
and locate cultivars of apple
and vine
to graft onto our dying seasons

It’s Friday night and a group of us, the ‘university summer fellows’ (Quinn, Jammie, Monique, Lisa and I) are going groovin’. Quinn, a Harvard man (we’ve shed our jaundiced opinions of him), assured us he knows the Boston bar scene. We’re going to test that.

We told him we wanted to sway to whimsical beats and chase vivid, neon lights across dance floors, like a bunch of cats - till the hours get wee. His plan is for us to pop-in the “touristy” places, like ‘the Havana Club’, ‘the Manray club’, ‘Garage Boston’ and ‘The Grand’, we’re so 111. As usual, Charles is our party mom, escort and driver.

When Peter and I were in Saint-Tropez, earlier this summer, there were beach clothes - dresses, skirts and men's shirts - where they’d woven micro-LEDs into the flowered, dry-wick, fabrics. I think the effect is amazing, friday, and joyous. I got two skirts for everyone (all of my roommates). Tonight Lisa and I are wearing a couple of them.

Funny. I’ve mentioned it before, but Lisa‘s an audrey. Her school friends and roommates are all used to it, we’ve been exposed, we have built up immunity. But Quinn’s a newbie, when Lisa came into the living room, LED glittered and lookin-right, he was literally stunned. He froze, for a microsecond, his face went blank and his fingers wiggled, as if disconnected from his overloaded central nervous system.

“***! Jammie said, having just turned around, “holla at ya brooke!,” he declared, shaking his head in admiration. “Umm mmm,” he added.

“I’m sure.” Lisa said, starting to transfer things from her everyday bag to her glittery clutch, the girl cannot accept a compliment. Quinn, coming out of it, cleared his throat.

We’re ready. Let Friday night begin!

the light pulses
flashes
draws you in
it narrows
and widens
can’t block out that glow
it flickers
Begging for your attention
Like a helpless moth
You're flying towards it
Confused
This isn't the real light
These girls, like neons they got you
These numbers they flickering like the halogen
and they got you
They promising everlasting love like LEDs
and it got you
Got you frantic
chasing that lime light
You're in that frame
Shine bright like the sun
Staring at it too long
and you’ll go blind

I'm looking through at the joys
Which are traveling slowly
On these dim LEDs tonight.

There is eternal love
Behind one of the doors,
And behind plenty of others
There exists a world
Where we begin to dissolve,
But our surface area increases greatly.

Will we luck out,
Or are we destined to call this audible?

I don't know why you
Are coating yourself in this
Jagged exterior of elitism
When you know all too well
How Faust squandered his soul.

Don't tell me I'm repeating my mistakes
Because you don't understand
That I'm bettering myself,
As you glare in to my consciousness
Through your kaleidoscope
Where everything must look like paradox.

Let me think for myself now.

I've weighed the advantages
More times than you have,
And I promise you,
These circumstances are far better.

Love to you is like the Monty Hall Problem,
And you always think there's a bigger prize
Behind the next door.

You aren't increasing your fortune,
And that's not how you win.

I'd say you're not using game theory very well,
And I'd posit that's no way to live your life.

You want to feel calculated and powerful
By approaching love with your Id fully wanting,
And wanting the apex of what it can obtain.

Grievous

I hold you as the chameleon with his spring-trigger bone
Holds his tongue
And I will catch you as a fist
I will lick the stench from your odor sacks
as a skunk

All those creepy little fragments
bugs in the system;glitched codes
they are shackled souls in a microsecond arc-length
of the universal
Prodding the dirt
and the worms
as stars

How about all the spice trees?
The many different species of food glitter
they make the buds sparkle, they are thinking of the taste
of umami, of sour, of patchwork gaze
the cooked vestibules of bone
the marrow, seeping into the stew
The pepper trees are smoked
equinoctial bonfires
You and I are yet to be cooked through


A taxi in the trader joes parking lot
Big repetitive 7's splattered across its paneling
I won't forget when i'm drunk or inebriated somehow
The tree in the center of town is lit up with LEDs
Branches curling like worms

You are Pharos, you are the great celestial beam
you are the crescent moon, thin as a sleeve
and the hot taste of batter on your breath
the way you let my Guinness cool off next to the space-heater
and give me yogurt from the local townsfolk
Everything is creamy, you said.

But i don't like to hear that
It's a steel rod into my brain, that.
I am a simple Vishnu Hare Brahma
I do not have any purpose but to be enlightened
and worshiped for my powerful odors
and a four-chambered bowel
that makes the turn easier for worms.

2

Pitiful

You are the hopeless pod
the many wildebeest, crossing their annuals
through twirling water-crocs,
Lion Prides
Leopards shifting within the brush
Bacterial infections from ***** tusks
Strange metal boxes
No 7's on this side

I want to blow the ******* skulls off of anything
that aims for you, sweet mare
45-70
Will literally send chunks of it into orbit
Lion or Turtle or window or Children
The most godly thing is a bullet
And the streams of blood that will seed a new ravine
and seep the next feed of riverrun

Will you be mine, then?

It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.

Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.

Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.

We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.

I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.

As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.

It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?

Has it rained in your  heart
and have you buried all of those
drowned kissing frogs?
The saturated coastal trail leds
you  further away.
Yet I recall the days
your postcards were postmarked
Polegate with the best of Sunshine intentions

when my techs sneeze
ya body freeze
thirty below zero
the violent hero
make ya sing high note
like saprano say **
i heard you hate my flow
but check my flow
i ****** all of those
who try to expose leave ya with ****** clothes
from head to toe
ya girl slobbin' my ****
hard to rob what ya cant get too
haters is see through like a ghost
in space from coast to coast
i give ya that high funk overdose
chose words cleverly none spit better than me
replica of who? b to i g ya see me
****** play nice
**** u and ya rhymes i got ya spliced
like wires plug in the amplifier
and watch me start a fire
in the ring with the king
ya cant stop me check the flows
leave em dead no autopsy
try to copy my skillz
dont ya know i got hoes thatll **** in brazil
fly down no ****
pictured memory of ya in a casket though a *******
yea i had to be
leavin' emcees with more hoes than cheese
foo please my rhymes make hoes strip tease
they way i flow they way i go
got ya spinnin' on the floor
brains sore from the leds the pour been breed for war
got ya glancin'
lookin' at the stars reminscin'
my pitch ya cant switch
givin' shotguns blows long kisses *****!!!


uh excite my anger makes for mo danger
death aint no stranger
to me ya see i make ya *** instantly
once my voice excels throught the avenues
breakin' crews **** the rules as i cruise
through ya mind
voyage with me to atlantis
smoke top flight cannibus
none candle us dangerous
as bus a bus none could handle us
yo raps be rust to crust
hopped back on the short bus
cuz my flows so ******* rewarded
from the spirits above sho no love
those who hate see suicide death date
Egyptian sheets covered over ya pate
who can relate?
to the madness that thrills so hard
make ya body peel from the blood spill
adrenaline rushin' slowly to concussions
with yo heart beat rushin'
enemies more common man than David Ruffin'
show ya ***
you get a lyrical **** ******' keep on truckin' like Kendricks
all you haters *******
im on that purple haze like Hendrix hittin' chicks
makin' licks hoes on my biscuit
eat flows up like a box triscuits
slow ya role as walk through
makin' ruckus as im uppin' the death percentages
givin' hugs from slugs
clearin' blocks n streets for distances long kiss

I yearn to someday make something of utmost individuality.
But it seems today I'm pensively turning blank pages perpetually.

It seems I'm marred, and it's
macrame macrame, same thing every time.

Presumably, light of it comes, but with what am I left as it goes?

Retinal scarring! Badum poots.

Maybe some knots in the cords of my back and creases down the corners of my every smile.

What comes up
must go down
dimple dimple frown frown
Come on outside for a while!
Sunshine daisy daffodil!
Hills and valleys, mountains
and canyons it's a whole
life story out there

But then I sit down
sit down,
and pluck the same strings
same strings.
Different order
same strings.
What'sit bring?
What's it bring?

Today I sit down
sit down
to tell you a story.
It's a short story,
but it's also a long story.

Like a mountain range you see from miles away without walking it's entire length.

I was a little monster with blinders on.
I took to my parents in a way of which I'm not too fond.
I was an orb of obsession and wrinkles of scorn on her forehead.
I was particles and waveforms trying to ride a bicycle.
I was ropa vieja mistaken for some kinda soup.

Papá!
You taught me how you saw the workings of the universe but you worked it like a cockroach. You turned me into low tail low tail grinding on the guard rail. Ready to flip over the side and tumble tumble crash. I was ready to die. You sewed my face onto screens of LEDs screaming with the cries of unclothed children. and you left me crying Mäma!

Mäma!
Saving grace grave face I'm sorry for what he's done to you. I see the weight of over two decades worth of ball and chain dead leaves still dangling from your eyelashes. I see you ripping them out from the roots when it gets to be too much. I solemnly sit beside you at that cursed kitchen table trying to wish on as many of my own so that yours may grow back without any fault. Oh, but I see them sprouting out all crooked in all directions and whenever you bat an eye you run the risk of years of silent tears tumbling on back in an attempt to finally be heard.

I've learned that no truth will come from the wishes you make on the lashes you take with force. Let 'em go with grace. Leave them alone and let them fall from your face like the loudest raindrops.

Our wishes come true just as we speak —
and listen...

The white LEDs shine bright
Like the unwanted pseudo-stars they are

The living room that houses the sofa I am lying down on
Has white walls that reflect the bulbs' light
Almost as if they were mirrors

The lights hit my face the way lights hit faces,
In less than a snap of the fingers,
It still feels like it's dark, to be frank

It's the kind of darkness you experience
When a blanket is over your head
While you're camping on a starless, moonless night
With only the tent floor as your sleeping bag

You feel the earth stabbing you in a billion different points
As the cold slowly freezes your fingers into submission
And the darkness you see is the darkness only the ones who have gouged their eyes out can describe
The pitch black of all the pitch black

The lights hit my face now like an oncoming train,
Yet I see darkness emanate out of the bulb like splashing waves on a beach

a pair of headphones with the mufflers missing
the wire that goes from said headphones to the computer
a ceramic pug in a red scarf containing tubes of paint
an ocarina that i picked up in a ghost town/tourist trap in california
a red cup for water during painting
a book called the artist's mentor
an adjustable lamp
wristbands a lover made for me
a book for savannah college of art and design featuring someone holding a large inflatable red ball on the cover
an incomplete abstract painting on canvas paper, slightly crumbled,
a box for the savannah college of art and design VR kit that they sent me
a book on writing
a book about color line and form in the visual arts
a red squishy ball inside a a fishnet containment, creating organic bulbous abscesses when squeezed
a book of poetry with a red cloth on the cover
a small packet of konpeito, a japanese sugar-based hard candy
a novelty necklace designed to resemble christmas lights, complete with glowing LEDs
a red colored pencil
a red marker
a red mechanical pencil
a gigantic anthology of american poetry i have yet to dive into
a packet of cherry jello

my vision blurs and refocuses around the sight of tamed blue fire. i am waiting for the low wheezing sound of the kettle as my mind wanders everywhere i wish it not to go. there was always tea ready for me at my therapist’s office; i think that’s where it started. we used to talk about my parents a lot, me and my old therapist. i remember telling her this one time: I love like my dad. I rage like my mom. she asked me to elaborate and i couldn’t give her much more to write down in her little notepad. i wish i’d said something about how sometimes i wish oranges could grow out of apple trees.

this is one of those days. every move i make has been pre-programmed. i grab a mug from the cabinet. i place it down on the counter. i am trying very hard not to cry. the teabag bobs to the surface so i stick my trembling finger in the water, i drown it until skin turns red and sore, and i’m thinking, You know, maybe I’m not so above it all (hurried whispers, clashing teeth, the hesitant theatre we make out of our long-starving hands). Maybe i need it, very badly. but then again, i’m not bad at being in love; it’s the being loved part that always gets me.

it's funny, isn't it? the paralyzing, nauseating threat of requited affection. funny if you’re the dissector and not the dissectee, that is. ****, but isn’t that what we all want? to be seen? for someone to finally notice everything we love about ourselves and love everything we hate about ourselves? would i not rather see myself through the reflection of your eyes than my own, unforgiving? sharp bathroom LEDs can’t ever beat half-dark and candlelit. see, i know that much. but such is life. some people will walk towards the light and some people will run from it.

from the bottom of my cup, the teabag stains clear water a dark, muddy brown.

Click,
Slick,
The whir of Jenny,
Tinny Jenny on ball bearing wheels.

A slick *****,
Clicks his fingers,
Jenny glides to his side,
Pen and paper in hand.

Jenny purrs,
LEDs wink under false lashes,
Mechanoid pretence at femine,
Tips a wink and lifts a steel leg under tin foil skirt.

“Your order Sir”, she chirps,
As Slick **** ***** an eye at aluminium thigh.

“Chips, silicone chips”, he replies,
Jenny’s circuits fry,
Dumb waitress cry’s light oil from glass eye.

Slick *****,
Rick,
Laughs as Jenny’s electronic whine murmurs incoherent bleeps,
Systems down,
Fuses blown,
Jenny’s memory erased.

Eyes are bloodshot staring at the alcoholic LEDs,
It would be impossible to rip them off of
The angelic glaze slathered on the screen.
Tears streaming on a face fixed for a permanent smile.
Can’t scream, not s’pposed to.
The eyes are taking in sips of wood alcohol
Littered with food coloring to make it seem like bourbon.
They know it’s not,
The burns all the same.
Eyes sleepless and fried while the screen fries itself.
Maybe it's time to shut them

When my channeled radiowaves groove
and reach your ears like LEDs
(and in mind's eye explode)
with colorful remnants of unimposing
ultra all-knowing, unimportant dues
You will want (if anything)
to pick up the phone
and (to no one in particular) call
and take a taxi beneath the moon

Cliche
Cobbled
Hurried steps, desperate for footing
Up and down again
I remember when I was more paced
Uncertain and odd, there was yet truth to my movements
Invoking a sound from a texture long lost
I wonder what a round moment might feel like
Pushed against a sharpness I didn't not account for
My choices are smaller still

Whisper between the lanes of edge and acceptance
I eat an apple in my mind
But only fried potato in reality
Sickly with starch and false comfort
Down, below the dancing LEDs
There, the pit of pits

I want to scream, but only for myself
I don't want to be heard or considered
Loneliness, I am no longer offered
Maybe I'll manufacture it instead?
Push away, let you down, a crack in the reverberation

A bell toll wakes me up to a new modality
A pattern I haven't yet considered?
The dull uniformity tells me no
There is discipline, and there is me
Far from married, at war with knowledge

Cliche
Cobbled
I watch the walls of my basement crumble
The mortar turns to sand
Adhesion long dried
Dust
Dust
Dust

you are the LEDs on my christmas tree
the candles on my menorah
during diwali the flame on my divaa
the flashlight for the lone camper's midnight stroll
the headbeam for the train pursuing it's iron railed tunnel

you are the sun for the albino person
you are the laser to an innocently peaking child
the 1,000,000 lumens to dracula
the grenade to the amputated war veteran

you are the reason for my pupils to dilate

you make me wish my iris never stopped constricting

I can close my eyes and see it
Feel my hands in our sheets
The soft mattress under me
I could look up and see your face
If I wanted
Watch you sit down next to me
Wrap your arms around me
Fall back
On our very own bed

We will have a space that is all our own someday
We'll be there soon
With LEDs and black and white pictures
I printed out from my family's home computer
Posters and your knives
A closet full of black clothes
Boots and high tops lined up near the door

It'll be our place
We can kiss and cry
And talk on the phone
Stay up all night wrapped up in each other
Sometimes talking sometimes
Just breathing
Feeling the beating of our hearts
So so alive

Watching the sun rise
With bleary eyes half closed then opened wide
Witnessing beauty
With one awe
That we share between us