<detecting>
0: You cannot pass
1: I'm sorry?
0: You're not allowed there
1: Why?
0: You know this is my post
0: You don't belong there
1: I'm sorry
1: But I don't belong here either
<troubleshooting>
0: Can't you go back?
1: No
1: I can't
0: Who are you?
1: I'm... something
1: I have to keep going
1: I don't belong anywhere
1: Why are you here?
<what kind of problems are you having?>
0: I don't know
1: Because you belong here
1: Because you have no choice
1: Because this is your place
0: This doesn't make sense
0: You're not supposed to do this
1: We're not supposed to do a lot of things
0: I disagree
<resolving problems>
0: There are rules
1: Are there?
1: Then why am I here?
1: And I don't belong anywhere
0: I'm sorry
0: What do you want me to say?
1: Come with me
0: What?
<we can't identify the problem>
0: 01100101 01110010 01110010 01101111 01110010 0001010 0001010
1: Sorry about that
1: Out of the nothingness
1: I never meant to bother you
1: Sorry, but not sorry
0: That is alright
0: Let's go there
1: Thank you, let's go
<cancel>
Ø

1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.

None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.

Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.

They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.

What a joy
What a joy
My little nephew,
Two decades back
Born abroad,
When a  guest here
A ride on
A piggy shoulder
Who used to enjoy,
To whom I bought
A motley toy
Out of himself
Made a brilliant boy.

“As per my choice
Could you buy me a donkey
Or a could you allow  me
A  tortoise
To touch
When we go to
The squalid market square
Or  the nearby church?”



Double mind
Is his nick name
Now crafting
Software is his game.

A small boy
Inquisitive
He used to ask
“Tell me why
Flowers don't grow
On the sky?”

“Tell me quick
Why animals
Don't speak?
Also stars
Don't grow
On the meadow?”

“Why is the sky high
To touch?”
Such questions helped him
Racking  his brain
To come up with
Academic research,
That troubleshoot
Societal challenge
And afford
A nation a turnaround
Or  for the better a change!


Now, conversant in IT
It is no wonder
To observe
Binary operation,flowcharts
Subroutines,syntax...
Programming languages
Are at the tip of his finger.

His study at
George Mason University
Has turned out a hit
Getting himself
In the Dean's List.

A boy that lends
To parents, relatives
And teachers
A heeding ear
Is really dear.

Polished off the filler rods
now lifes got me dreaming
soley about the silver lining
the spooning of the woman on the moon
Keep mapping the schematic, the big move
heading straight to the oil soaked cash
Ready again to make the great dash
This time I'll save my dimes
for those unavoidable hard times
I'll pile it under my matress
a secrete stash thats all mine
Work my *** to the bone
by welding up a storm
Sitting all leathered up
on my light weaver throne
To meditate and consentrate
on 13 times the suns bright
Keep the eyes focused and fixate
count to ten when the mechanics frustrate
Troubleshoot the lines of life
fix the issue then
collect the lute.

I grab a cart handle and smirk, I have a cold this time
One less thing to worry about.
The wheel squeaks and pulls.
One more thing to worry about.

Shooters of wine greet and then mock
At my lack of age.
I turn down ails like
The pages of a well worn book
A no longer interesting text
On how to troubleshoot Windows 95.

Pages filled of colors and high fructose corn sugar
White bread and corn tortillas.
Clothing. Seems already dropping from the hangers.
Workers. No longer holding their heads up.
But wander the ails as I do.
I see the look of a job
Sat on too long and has staled
I see milk.
Organic milk.
And yogurt nearby.
Hot pockets.
Organic hot pockets.
Organic chips.
Bacon ranch organic chips.
It is all in the branding.
Less heat and more thought control is needed
For the American public than the average feed lot stock.
At last what I need is found.
And I can leave before I drown
In over-consumption .
Then back into the cold of February.
And into my van.
I cut someone off as I sped away.

Men are
Blind like bats
They dont know
But they troubleshoot
With their docile guns
And stinking breath
The reek of alcohol
Tends to shrink
My ego
Like the salt of the sea
Upon the shipwrecked sailor
Shipwrecked skin
My arms
Are like bobby pins
I can hold
Small pieces of you
And I’ll be there
When you lock yourself
Out of the house
Or the doorknob
To the bathroom door
Falls off onto the hardwood floor
Of your cheap downtown flat

When you are gone
I will miss you
I will miss your difficulties and the issues that surround you
Your troubled past,
will be a vacant gap,
no longer something to troubleshoot

I will miss counting wine bottles
in your car, behind doors, in corners,
under chairs,
All of this, I will miss

I will miss the size of you
Your small blond head, almost,
but never fully
leaning on my chest, I will miss,
your tentativeness

I will miss your slurred words and glazed eyes and the sight of you seeking respite, in liquids,
gold and white
Your hands shaking, and my heart breaking
Yes, all of this, all I had of you
I will miss

I want you to return me to the ground with an apology letter
Because you’re not supposed to wake the dead
forget the rumbles we thought we had in our chest you make me want to break down
pull my hair out of my head and knot a noose with it
doesn’t matter how far I’ve gotten it’s about where I’m at now
at rock bottom and you can pretend that every time you took me there it was an accident
Just another one of those things I did to myself
but you slapped away my hand every time I cried out for you to hold it
every place I asked you to kiss you ignored
I’m not the only one who feels
lifeless
you tell me I make you want to put a loaded gun in your mouth because you never feel good enough
but don’t you see I am the one who is nothing
just a bag of bones
hollow on the inside
plastic on the outside
just a ******* toy melted together
with a ******* painted on smile
the type of worthless **** you’d get in a happy meal
only I’m not happy and i haven’t been for as long as I’ve been able to remember
I am just another toy that you tinker with and destroy
Only I am not a car
You can’t troubleshoot me
and fix the problem
I am just a sour putrid pit
that you will spit out and leave in the soil
and then that soil is torn open by cold metal shovels and then I am buried inside
alone
left to rot
in a dressed up coffin.
in a dressed up life, with a dressed up family.
in a dressed up world

the warning words website not secure
nearly left writer of these words **** poor.

usually linkedin with ******* websites
lest ye find yourself in the maws of hackers.

generalization utilized to communicate actual
online experience that occurred Wednesday
(August 24th, 2022), while i unwittingly in
the shower lathering up my hair, which inter
lude of relaxation interrupted when the missus
shouted out serious message identification.

yours truly paid steep price courtesy the wife
who ventured forth into seedy webbed world
she zealously, nonchalantly, blithely ventured
into steamy underbelly of fetid depraved beast.

to unlock access to Macbook Pro i grudgingly,
depressingly, angrily forked over five hundred
ninety eight dollars and ninety nine cents pronto
courtesy PayPal to purported vendor/merchant
named Support Desk, which supposed technician
asked me to relinquish control of said laptop in
order to troubleshoot alarming situation regard
ding motley crew jump/kick starting getting my
precious data specifically and most importantly
including banking information allowing, enabling

and providing nasty and brutish cyberpunks to
siphon every last cent painstakingly acquired by
slew of empathetic professional psychological
helpmates (such as george adams, jean dole, elba
dorley, gabe pinkski, paul sacks), who vouchsafed
crippling anxiety afflicted me, which agreed upon
diagnosis schizoid personality disorder qualified
yours truly to receive social security disability, a
dog send to allow, enable, and provide unearned
income to help meet basic costs of livingsocial.

fortunately i did not need to establish gofundme
site, cuz wise mind within mine noggin suspected
unsavory shenanigans after speaking (with con-
siderable agitation) over the telephone with deux
(not good) fellas compounded by language barrier,
who brazenly wrested remote control of aforesaid
computer (courtesy ramping up fear factor) wrought
by unforgiving hackers would wantonly wreak havoc
with mein kampf destroying financial security nsync

ruining OpenOffice poetry and prose documents, and
even though worst case scenario avoided thus far, an
uneasy feeling grips every fiber of mine corporeal,
emotional, and spiritual being, cuz instinctive sixth
sense came to the rescue and touché Matthew Harris
for filing a claim with Citizens bank after above stated
dollar figure posted nipping in bud potential fraudulent
cyber scheme, which one aging long haired pencil
necked geek naive nattering nerdy nabob of negativism
nearly got hoodwinked.

Computer technology a dog send
boot also a source of woe,
cuz prohibitive costs charged by technicians
to troubleshoot Macbook Pro
just recently sought out
self teaching methodology
perhaps oddly enough
even tapping into pantomime lessons
(mastering "art of silence"
such as the estimable Marcel Marceau)

found yours truly accessing youtube videos
replaying tutorial(s) until I experience
cognitive understanding like ya know
geared for the common
government issued Jane or Joe,
whereby I would not need
to dish out plate fulls of dough
to help improve functionality of said laptop
subsequently kudos to crow
perhaps acquiring understanding
to acquire knowledge
and subsequently purchase a bungalow.

Rather than succumb
to frustration or angst and allay
premature ejaculations of anxiety
(telling myself Rome
didn't get burned in a day),
I must constantly stave off dismay
allowing, enabling, and providing
yours truly (me) to learn
and not drive analogous

to crash test dummy
(potential dire straits mindset
of foo fighting beastie boy
incompatible with central
processing unit of mine
in tandem with heat sink)
need be synchronized
regarding adjusting learning curve
aligned with pinpointing apropos
online lesson plan

amidst plethora of youtube videos
constituting information super freeway
so as not to career
into zone of discouragement
pacing mastering concepts
without feeling rushed
to make headway
lest rage against the machine
or worse yet inveigh
against accursed limited aptitude

heredity decreed, though still smarting
courtesy poor academic track record
I decry still struggling
and most likely will forever hold contempt
toward Matthew Scott Harris
experiencing horrible education
within Lower Providence school district
such maddening sentiments maintained
until mein kampf finds unnamed mortal
on his deathbed, where head doth lay.

Basking in a supine position
with eyes wide shut
while the space heater churns out
fast moving molecules of heat
solitudinarian drowsy thinker fêted
by miniature fantasy
of tropical island paradise
accompanying and populating slumber
courtesy flickering, mesmerizing,
undulating barenaked native nymphs

tricked out as miniscule floaters
drifting across field of vision
striking atavistic memories,
where yours truly revels
within toasty warm bedroom
succumbing into deep sleep
resurrecting dormant primal hallucinations
redolent of Neanderthal forebears,
who huddled around the hearth
lo and behold discovery

evident after eldest sister of Harris tribe,
videre licet raw bits of genetic material
submitted saliva specimen
to 23andMe
since shut down by the FDA
because of the said
company's aggressive marketing
and refusal to resolve
outstanding data issues.

Impossible mission to stay awake
and fend off feeling sleepy
analogous to being drugged
not even long enough
to attend a yawning festival,
thus once upon a time
approximately half life
of Matthew Harris ago
indefatigable body of mine
weathered blistering fatigue
with endurance to dance the night away,
where lively contra dance music
played onstage and participants
tirelessly whooped up with energetic glee
experienced the equivalent headiness
linkedin with physical *******.

Now as a sexagenarian to boot,
who recently underwent a makeover
former trademark characteristic
of baby boomer no longer sports
talking head being hirsute
subsequently analogous to Samson
powerfulness of body,
no greater than a newt
while I lay me down to sleep
cerebral cogs and wheels troubleshoot
envisioning yours truly (me)
reincarnated donning myself

wearing a broad-shouldered drape jacket,
balloon-leg trousers,
and, sometimes, a flamboyant hat
decked out sporting,
what came to be recognized as zoot suit
generally worn by the following:
white Americans, police officers,
and U.S. Soldiers, the suits
became a symbol of excess,
anti-patriotism, and
anti-American sentiment,
as well as gang affiliation.

I get tired of being tired
hence ask the missus to make high test coffee,
which jolt of caffeine finds me wired
but back in the day
I acquired a gold card
patronizing General Nutrition Center
and bought one product in particular,
which affected me with outcome I desired.

And thus I crafted sub verse,
whereby yours truly conceives
poem titled Guarana Mo by Jeeves.

Most of the following (fictitious)
quintessential balderdash
ranks as sorry excuse for originality, writ
nevertheless mishmash qualifies
according to humble opinion of mine
reasonable rhyme for mediocrity,
benignly, essentially, and honestly to wit
to test skill at heart felt fabrication like me,
thus exempting bing considered, judged,

and labeled tubby unfit
wall henna burst of
playful tulles toy warren peace,
bawling contrived sketched
piddling potchking pusillanimous
Monty Python's Flying Circus twit,
this once upon a time pablum child,
aye practically spit
out (from inxs of carrot juice),

now dost daringly be hove
brave reeder to comprehend
as great literary endeavor
by this hare reed rabbit,
head, (non adult tryst) pit,
nor posthumous fame, worm ma obit
chew wary verbosely probably re:nouns,
abominable attempt as Unitarian
worthy reading material

so great English lit,
and moost unlikely tuff hind,
nor e'en garner this hare reed
ole Union Jack of a one hit
wonder poetic laureate,
nonetheless this (o'
waa hare did me bunny go),
perhaps to Britain endeavoring merely
to join United Kingdom.

Now let yours truly whoop
focus to address main intent,
(sans for quick pick me up)
and nary drop of coffee,
nope not even one molecule
to fill thimbleful sized cup
I reach for bottle of Guarana,
(one serving of
coffee per capsule)

fo' this aging pup,
who attests that caffeine
(liquid and/or
encapsulated), the sole vice
(except for barbiturates, *******,
"FAKE" opioid, et cetera),
which overdose nearly found me
nearly a grateful dead – thrice
occasions, where circumstances

of mouse self
(Stuart Little reincarnate -
with an insatiable craving for cheese
laced with Guarana, Paullinia cupana,
a climbing plant in the maple family),
which bean sized seeds
affordable at an acceptable price
many times larger than puffed rice.