Thursday, 10 May 2012

poem; The Black Box


The Black Box

Existential crisis
Is indeed 'why?'
A matter of I don't understand 'why' people do what they do
A black box
With only
Hope left in it.

There is a leak
However
In the edge seals
And hope kind of seeps
Out the sometimes
And like magic
If you look
It is empty anyway.

In this way
It is best left alone.
Best to keep the idea of hope
Alive in imagination
For if you don't look
Then you can at least be sure
It is imaginably there.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Poem; Sunny Morning Time for The Gardens


Sunny Morning, Time for The Gardens

Imagine it is fairly quiet
And that all we hear is the occasional car
Rushing by and the clink of cups
A muted murmur of conversations we can't yet hold ourselves
Or quite make out.

I don't know
Maybe we fail at this
One simple thing
The normal world seems to have access to.

Steeping in caffeinated
Public forum of the hipsters
Blending at best
But it's no sham really
Obvious by sheer self-consciousness.

Easier to build flip-point
Equation
I say
Than place on a drip of humming bird vine.

Quantifiable
Progress
Course for charm.

Monday, 7 May 2012

Short Story; Part II Love Stories & White Stripes



Across the front windows is your map. The transport grid displays the colonies, new and old and their movement. Your map shows activity congregations and sorts it into data. The gray lines remind me of artwork. They resemble Cubist nature works but not by concept. The faded rust coloured dots that pinpoint location pulse light, like heartbeats and have always represented human quality to me.

Occasional blue lines flash on the grid and move like small trains from from one red dot to the next. I admire your map and call it your spectacular masterpiece for humanity. If you never create anything again in your lifetime that would be just fine.
I walk past the kitchen island with my small cup of coffee cup balancing the saucer underneath and brush your shoulders. I squeeze myself through what remains of the space between the back of the chair and the counter top.

“It's nice to have you home once and a while,” I casually tease you finally sitting in my chair.
You raise your brow and glance over the top of your glasses with an amused look. We both bust out laughing. A fun jab at a familiar button. A benign flash of prowess. I believe you may have fallen in love with me for that reason in the first place.

“The tigers seem content here,” I tell you. “You could spend more time with them,” I continue. You nod yes knowing full-well that increased time with our beautiful and rare survivors is not likely. We barely have have time for each other. Time moves quickly.

At the table I open our LipheGraph. The screen displays a blue and white bar graph chart. I take mental note of our time fluctuation patterns during Neptunian April. These weeks seems to have a deep gouge in compression which equals a loss of values. I sigh quietly and think of time lost with you and steal a glance at your face. I worry briefly about time loss in general and decide not to bring the subject up over breakfast. I shut the application off and set the Cadpod on the table. I reach over and rest my hand on top of yours. Your hands still look so soft and young. It amazes me how you stay so youthful considering the amount of work you take on. Your hair neatly grayed at the temples, symmetrically as if it obeyed you; as if you control anatomical physics.

Field security 3057 sweeps over the top of our tree line. The little drones are quick moving and soundless. The drone's reflective glass white eyes hover passed the window pausing only for a partial second. I stick out my tongue at the robot and it takes off in shot.

“Security clearance three, zero, five seven,” states our house.
“Nice to know.” I answer it. “Who would be here?” I ask you, waiving my hands.
You answer with a shrug.
“No idea,” you reply while finishing the last of your coffee. “How do you want to spend time today?”
“I hadn't thought about it -we could just stay home?”
“We visit Earth I think. You know, take a train or something,”you suggest. You love trains.
“The trains are fun.” I say.

I plunge into the shower and turn on the music and the water. Music is life blood for the soul. Rhythm and sound travel through the mind, busts up mental boxes and re-sorts the constant shifts of silt in the brain. Sometimes I think with all the enabled hyper-technology that evolves faster than its warded population, a primal musical body movement creates reconnection. I grasp the imaginary reins of rhythmic groove and wrap them tightly around my wrists. Genetic memories start to flow like oxygen in the bloodstream, like the water running down the sides of the glass from the shower head. Music is reason to breath again when the mind has overgrown our gardens.

I imagine the grand theaters we can visit together with their heavy red velvet curtains. Although the acrobatic troupes are mostly robotic there remain human champions that really impress me. They are physical marvels that challenge gravity and gravitational physics and all known anatomical movement. I feel my eyes sparkle at the image as the shampoo foams on my head.
Robots and holograms are an amazing site in themselves. Theater robots are today's classical mental manifestation. They are the work of tech-artists and composed entirely of language. They are the modern day sonnet, a translation of human dreams, visions and how the body could exist without limitation. The combination of the two; physically bound bodies and robotic projections create a spectacle unequaled in our history. I turn off the water. I wrap the drying towel around my hair and walk naked from the shower to our room.

“Babe? What do you think the dress will be at the events?” I ask.
“I think there is a culture festival running. You may want the red dress.”
I note your black suit and decide to dress to compliment. I had either gold or red in mind but decide on black. I enjoy black these days. I slide open the wardrobe and examine each garment individually. It is nice not to feel pressure of constraint. It is nice that you don't have to run off. My fingers settle on a tailored dress-suit with a shoulder drape and I feel satisfied. I notice you still watching me, unaware of your own smile. You snatch my underwear sitting beside you on the bed and start laughing.

“We'll never get out of here if you keep thinking that way.”
“I don't seem to care,” you reply and you reach for the window shades.

On the train I watch you looking out the window. Together we watch the barren desert roll past the framed polymer glass. It looks like historical photos I saw of the American dust bowls that left farmers, immigrant workers and most of Old America without food or resource. Large rock formations protrude out from the landscape and point towards the sky. The tall spiky crystal aggregate clusters formed by solar fusion sparkle in the harsh sunlight. The instant the Earth's atmosphere dissolved intense heatwaves formed flat sheets of glass on the ground and the beautiful crystal towers. It dazzles. The remainder of Earth life now survives under scrutinized atmospheric control. It is necessary to keep what we have left, even for sentimental reasons.

There are two exhibitions to see tonight. The theater and the music hall. I feel excitement rise even though access to all such things are available at any time through our screens at home. Being present in the physical is irreplaceable. There is a logic dichotomy presented by our inventions; reality is no less real if an experience is undergone by a human being. And yet moving one's body into an environment is an act in itself. Simulators can still only simulate.

Imagine the first experiences after the invention telephone. Imagine how those people felt lifting a mouth piece to their lips and speaking into an object. Imagine the confusion of logic they felt as a voice they may have known responded from another object located beside their ear. The reaction was often a reasonable hysteria sometimes even manifesting in religious icons. The inventors must have had a great chuckle.

Our train stops at an encapsulated station and people leave through the doors onto the platforms. Physical speed has become irrelevant but for novelty and in order to spare human bodies from excessive re-assemblage particle manifestation fatigue linear travel is still employed. Here again is the beauty of unfolding landscape and spending time. The stations were designed to be modular and sterile. I take note of the organic oxygen sculptures and appreciate the colour they add to an otherwise metallic enclosure. The smell of the filtered and cooled Earth air gusts in when the doors open. It smells salty and reminiscent of our former oceans.
 
Taking my hand we step onto the conveyor and glide down the boardwalk. The people around us appear to float past like the flying security robots at home. Their dress is a thousand colours. The festivals gear up and I see small children chatting with parents, fussing over what they will eat and how many treats are just too many. I am happy to visit again. It balances the sadness I have over Earth's abrupt end. I choke back my emotions with a clear of my throat and you catch my eye.

“Smile a bit.” you nudge me.
“Doing that.” I reply and attempt to.

Friday, 4 May 2012

Poem: Two Paragraphs Short A Stack


Two Paragraphs Short A Stack

She was dreaming
Some forbidden flavor of rock and roll dream
Awoke at 1:30am time zones roll back the closer you get
To the west
And like this movie she saw
Two boys in ball caps broke
Into the subconscious
The dream police even
Said 'hey about your faMily'
Held out
Broken cell phone.

Strange that her email
The next morning 
Read the same text
Like people miles and miles away could know
When she woke and what was happening.

Stranger still that the movie
Concept would be the same premise
Of new friends
Of actors
The same story line, a humorous doppelganger cast.

Dare dream again, said she
Two paragraphs short a stack
Two bricks short a mentionable tale.

Thursday, 3 May 2012

Poem: Rock, Paper, Dynamite


 Rock, Paper, Dynamite

So much crying lately
I spent most of Tuesday
Balling
Blowing my nose
Funeral on Friday
Upset everybody.

The human aspect is kind of a mess
Cop-out sexuality
Without investment
The fast-food of the soul
Death by cancer
People who never smoked
Every day now 'so-and-so has (whisper) cancer' 'What kind?'

Myself split into four or more worlds
Sometimes all going off at once
My playing cards are tired
And refuse to perform at the moment
Divided we fall.

I am going to play the human race card
The race for human
Try to rule out complexity with logic
Try to not melt the chocolate in the window sill
Not to help that bloody heart.

What I want is so simple
How to get there is an infinite maze of candor
A mathematical horror movie
The line of logic more like
A tube of paint
Under pressure.

Sunday, 22 April 2012

Death in The Family; A Poem For Xing Over

A Poem For Xing Over

Gone is one prize fighting Uncle
Last night
2:00am.

Funny my family always dies in April
A month to short
The weeks not quite adding up right
A relief to have made it through
The dark and so cold winter.

Really, it's a beautiful day
Outside some bird has an unfamiliar sound
Like an alarm that will not shut of
Vigil for our nature family
I feel like some tough seed grass
Heritage 
Out fishing hours in the bush
On lakes of glass.

Happy Crossing Uncle
May your journey be well
Those beautiful blue-eyed women are waiting for you there
I have it on good authority that the party was fabulous.

XOXO,
The Kid.

Friday, 20 April 2012

Poem For A Fiery Friday Night

Poem For A Fiery Friday Night

A girlfriend
What!
Check out love at the library
In the fiction isle
It's swaggy
Like Boy-Bieber.

Drag out the embers
Check out
The red
Its charred and coals and warm.
Life's best
Quality.

A goal for fire
A pursuit divination
You can feel it
Tactile
Electric
Connect.

Ain't nothing wrong with passion
Brother
Dodge
And Dive in
Feel the weight of the blankets
A great sleep
A beautiful morning light.

We configure
Just the impossible way
To get there
A pathway
Very simple
Love
Now the mother of invention
The beauty of being mortal
The eventuality of getting old
Hello.


For Freedom of Our Words

For Freedom of Our Words

Freedom of words,
Yes (yeah) I see your imposition
Opposition
Fear
That a poem may inspire; funny really.

A book too
Of recovery
The path to resolution
A fictional imaginary solution to that which impedes
Humans
All families included.

So ask me what we do
Eminent persons, funny relatively speaking
Your Honorable.

This is a doctrine
For Freedom of Expression
For Free Speech and the Evolution of Culture
The Right to Commerce and Inclusion
For Education
For Equality
An Up-grade in Ethics
For Political Opinion
Representation of Nation and Gender and Ability and Orientation
With Words.

The question of who propagates what
Can be answered by what people do
By what they say
By what problems they solve
By who they inspire to do better
By what message they send.

We can hear each other now.

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Some Kind of Paper: Platforms for Development and The Rise of E-Commerce

Platforms for Development and The Rise of E-Commerce

Concerns are always being presented during times of change and uncertainty breeds apprehension and the inevitable demands of regulations to follow. The rise of the E landscape is not immune to such questioning as many interests groups wish to make their opinions known during stages of development.

As the enormously populated Internet culture grows and people increasingly meet each other I personally find a surprising amount of commonality and peace. There are fundamental human desires like equality and respect that are represented by every demographic. It has been said that only on the internet can you be a dog and have a voice and in my opinion that is a wonderful thing because animals really should speak.

To find business and commerce along the way is a bonus moment perhaps as our (often handsome) cybernet rockstars create new, less expensive and innovative ways to do business. This again equals the afor mentioned human desires of equality by means of accessibility, empowerment and respect.

Traditional business models have had somewhat good success rates on the Internet but maintain Old School images and purchasing methods. In truth some part of the actual human exchange must be maintained as the evolution of the digital age continues. This leads to portable devices and the beloved digital paper trails.

The question presented to me was how will the new age better breed sustainability and fiance. It is a beautiful and elegant exchange for “the baby sitter, the dog walker, the piano teacher.” Now ethical capitalism is desired by all on the market place but the method of exclusion and stat quo is removed by the empowerment of the individual. More commerce drives the economic wheels on all scales and off we go. Government must absolutely support this new means of commerce as each transaction is on record and therefor taxable.


Some Paragraph Poem: For The Kids

For The Kids

Well a Mini-pop version of Human Rights is now available for
Free Download for your teenager.

I tell you here that in truth
The teenagers wrote it themselves see
And to the best of their young-people knowledge
May know some things even better than ourselves
Because somewhere
Along the lines
We taught them what was actually proper
And the idea of possibility.

Tiny Poem: Swell Water

Swell Water

Up from under the grass knoll
Comes water
And it does Rise
The pressure forces
Outward.

I do not know the physical calculation for water force
And swell
But it does, it is and it only grows.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Poem: Your Black Satin Jacket

Your Black Satin Jacket

I am going to make you a jacket.
It is black with gold threads
I will hand stitch it for you
Slowly
Each stitch at a time.

I can't wait to see the pictures
That will appear
In the work
Up the sleeves
Across your back.

Perhaps dragons
And swirling clouds
I can stud the eyes for you
With large black shining crystals
And brocade the edge in some scallop.

The lining of course
Is heavy black satin
The kind beautiful magicians
Wear like your formulation
A clear design in space.

I help you put it on
It fits you like it should
And suits you
Even though you don;t think you're fancy at all.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Poem: Ebb and Flow

Ebb and Flow

The blue main frame is still my favorite
How the currents rise and subside
Don't raise your nose in disgust my friend
There are more dimensions that count than just this.

Night and twinkle twinkle little satellite
I appreciate your prowess, your tigress your fight
But I sigh the same, balls out but I would like a breeze and a bird
Maybe something tasting of transcendental bo-heme-ia.
A cup of fancy, a drop of thank you.

It has been twenty years already. Half my life next month.
I am still the same but the stories on my desk have multiplied
Indefinitely.

As Promised: How To Love A Woman

How To Love A Woman

It's my turn, in step and without the powerhouse that you posses I use what I have
Word.
I told you I would show you 'how to love a woman'
And I'll try my best.

Perhaps knowledge was lost along the way, Like many cultures
Obliterated by more aggressive notions
Like spoiled and greedy immature children
The world became one of entitlement and gorging.

Or perhaps the situation never was; ask an old woman about love and she may tell a story of
Compromise and sacrifice in financial circumstances without alternative
A tolerance of things she endured for the children or a false front of societal pride.

A woman is first person
Like a man, or rather not unlike a man
And the quality of character is where love is found.
It is 'I can't live without you anymore'
And 'I need you' yes, beautifully said.
It is a kiss
And trust that like you she is desirable
And that is wonderful
And that you need not be jealous
For if She is also of quality the place beside her is taken by You.

That famous six minutes the old ladies lovingly joke about requires only
Consensual compatibility
And for those knowledgeable on such subjects
A tongue-in-cheek understatement.

I hope this will suffice for time being.
The days run quick and there is work outside to be created, imagined, practiced, delivered.
Believers will make up for times suffered, love is coming and the packing is F.I.N.E.

Monday, 9 April 2012

Poem: One Dark Rose

One Dark Rose

I have been -AWAY- I know
Out on some panic
From my desk
It felt like hard toffee in my
Brain gears
All my thoughts wiped out
Feelings too, rather ones of battle
Wars that are not all my own, subjects best left for others.

It's a creep in the yard
The world a little more than a bit murky
And the man wants my opinion
Okay but why now after twenty-thousand rejections
I may have to commit to one year or two
But it could be worse
I can speak up for us
After all the flavor needs changing.

The dark rose itself
Sits alone
The last velvet petaled one I have
Its colour near black
Surrounded by blowing trash and shopping carts
I guarantee its authenticity
For nothing of its sort could grow otherwise
Sister says glass-scry
I see in the black reflection now
I see my own skeleton with blowing hair.

I hope for some logical conclusion
To the strangest episode ever written
The spangled series
Wrapped in flags
And questions
And the fun of mystery that frightens some so much.

Harbor the deep red pulse, boom-boom
Deepen the waters full mysterious, no shallow ends.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

You Need A Hobby: The Disconnect of Self and Environment in The Industrial Age @square

You Need A Hobby: The Disconnect of Self and Environment in The Industrial Age

This is not a new idea among artists. Having been part of a group of lateral thinking artists at one point in time I believe this idea was raised and talked about. It is a common idea among artists as they make most things as opposed to buying everything.

At one time people made everything around them. If they could not make something trade was available by the local specialist ie. Blacksmithy. For the most part every person in the village could make something and did as their contribution. This was not only a means of pride but necessary to survival.

With the onslaught of the industrial age this element of contribution and skill set was removed from the human hands and household. For some complex modern products the production will never be limited to one set of hands. (For most of us anyway- see supergenius) The automobile, the cellular phone for example. Most of us would never possess the ability or desire to make such a object. And considering the time involved, we would face starvation in the process.

I was asked to sign up with a new website that was about objects that you own and what people had in common by means of co-relation. As it turned out I owned almost all original or handmade items. The digital products I have are not fancy but utilitarian. I joined because I like pioneer ideas and the people who created this one but for myself I could not share.

Let's return to the idea of the home environment. It is a human need to feel pride in one's surroundings. Perhaps the re-discovery of making things with your hands is, for any reason at all, one of self-esteem. You say, I don't know how to make anything. You may add, I have no talent. Both statements are untrue. I say this because making things has become a lost art. It has been removed from human hands and increasingly so over the last few generations. I recommend heading to the craft store or taking a course with one of the last standing artisans in your community. You need a hobby and there is always the community market on Saturday.

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Poem: Sunshine for Rocks (Paper, Scissors) #roundtwotoday

Sunshine for Rocks (Paper, Scissors)

Alright then let's do this
Write something for light, like sunshine
I don't want to see you angry
Or hurt even.

Smile cause you like it
Theater on cue
Everybody happy
No reason not to be.

We'll settle this debate
With rock, paper, scissors
If only so later I can go and play black jack with my bf.

Design diversity in the forest
Accessible literacy and
Leave no person behind
For love and astro-sized possibility
That we are different is good
Have a hug
Have a day where the village raises a child.


Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Poem: Ode to An Ozark Witch

Ode to An Ozark Witch

Thank you! For just being there.
Hunched over hag
Scraggly hair
Ragged
In Black clothes
A cloud of floury dust
Trailing behind you.

I love your
Holey barn board
Shack
Stoney fire chimney
Black cauldron
And rack.
One pot
One plate
One six toed cat.

Your youth flew away from you witch
Some eighty years ago
Wrinkled apple
Murkey watery eye
Webtoes
On both feet
Nettle from the yard
You chew more slowly
Than last time
I saw you.

Sunday, 25 March 2012

Poem: AVO Blow The Whistle

Blow The Whistle

A Veritable Orgy.

Any first year Concordia C student could tell you how its done.
If only the trains would stop hollering
But they have to blow the whistle.

My dad's ghost is around
My grandmother too if you can figure that
My head is insisting
Logic prevails.

Hoses bust in the basement again
Here is your phenomena:
The picture says jump from the bridge
The dialogue does not match the lips
30 to 40 seconds
Is all it takes
And a nasty story becomes
A cold sore
A perpetual vision of shadow.

It be LIES
My family
A gossiping child
A pathological narcissist
With a negative attention span.

I don't mind the ghosts
They push me harder maybe
Rest up
Continue
To find the truth
That is already unopposed
In our hearts.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Poem: Grifters In Sin City @sportsrage

Grifters In Sin City


“Look at all the money” said Jimmy.
“I know,” said Eleanor. “They're PLAYING with it.”
What a place to be! Thought the two young people
The hustle was greater than the bustle.

A magic place with cards
Already placed on the tables
It was not in the cameras
It was not in the photos
For sometimes what you can't see is right before your eyes.

The sparkly lights attracted the kids
Who had nothing when born Nothing to begin with
There was gold on the ceilings and fish in the walls
Mirror on mirror the hustle was on.

Friday, 23 March 2012

Essay Question: Just For Laughs re: R U Psychic

Just For Laughs re: R U Psychic

Sit down on a bench today and look around. With your feet on the ground enjoy the terra firma
and just have a chuckle to yourself. This is grounding and good for you too. Now think; am I psychic?

Psychic is not some hoobie-goobie mess of floating object and layers of ghosts from the Otherside. Not for most anyway.

It is however an interpretation of symbols in the world, inside our minds and out.

Many examples of practical physic ability can be noted such as art, story telling, business, religion and everyday life. The symbol becomes a multilevel subtext of conversation which is simultaneously the actual surface conversation and a different layer of meaning. Some clever people will have even a third or more by the use of shared symbols. For example your friend and yourself have a memory about say 'bats' and when either of you mention 'bats' it refers to something else. This is a.k.a pretension but for a positive point here I will not continue on that topic. 

There is also an imagining from the mind that is spontaneous, internal and direct from the subconscious. Where these ideas come from may be explained in several ways; most not so mysterious. I think at this point in human evolution that almost everyone uses this part of their mind everyday especially as we become more literate in visual and written communication. The prophesied Age of Aquarius may not really be that far off and will not be the end of the world if people can keep a handle on things.
 
What is really important:
  1. Keep a positive frame of thinking. And in my opinion this is more important than you think. Why? Is because once your mind is open to interpreting symbols in the world there are a lot of very negative ideas that can make you feel terrible. Fear and sharing negative ideas carry on like a chain and then influence more people. Stay positive and happy. Know what is right to yourself and for others and share that idea instead.
  2. Stay Grounded. For most people the reading of subtext will not include The Otherside so just read the message. Is it positive? Does it reflect the way YOU think? Is it funny? Or maybe the message is not so nice so it stops where you found it. And lastly: Does it really matter?
  3. If In Doubt, Don't Go There. People will not always be 'in the mood' for anything but the printed, concrete surface idea. If you can't understand what a message means to you then leave it for another time. You might just be in a bad mood. Miscommunications are unavoidable so if you don't understand come back to it later or alternately; leave it alone. No point taking offense over a message you may be wrong about. You can lose friends that way.

Here for those who venture out into their Mindscape everyday I would like to propose a concept: Find your shadow, where ever it is in the room and mentally shred it. Shred it into a million pieces until it dissolves and only you remain. Sure it is still there. Wave 'hello'. But you might feel good about it and you can always do it again. XOXO. C.


Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Short Story Horror; Invasion of The Evil Twins

Invasion of The Evil Twins

c1970 Inoculation

The babies were all lined up carried in the arms of chatting mothers. Each woman held their child over her shoulder or coddles them in folded elbow nooks. The government issued vaccination orders and it was marketed to the public from the Health and Safety Board. Some babies cried in protest of the wait and were promptly bounced up and down in response with assuring 'shhhhh' sounds. Some babies gave surprised facial expression when pricked with the needle. This was often followed by a bursting howling cry that meant 'Momma! Betrayal!' It is a grand scene of adorable. Burton Cummings music played in the background of the community hall and impossibly accompanied the sounds of metal chairs scraping linoleum floors and the d├ęcor of fabric cubicle dividers providing the false sense of individual attention.

“God bless our future” said the mother next to Joanne.

“God bless them.” replied Susanna.


1984

She dances in front of the mirror with her hair brush microphone. The mirror is full length and she can see her entire self in it. They bought it from the extra large new box store opened in the west part of town. She has a record spinning on the turn table and it plays Girls Just Wanna Have Fu-un.
Her hair is side-ways and she chooses bright green neon fishnet stockings to match her knee length black pants. She has plans for roller skating on Friday night and wants to be ready for the disco lime light. Maybe she will even get a snowball dance with Jamie in his super tight jeans. She reaches for her make up bag and flops on the bed. Lying on her back she knows that she can only imagine the scene: He (so cute!) skates over to her and says '
hey'. He flips his white blond hair and she says 'hey' back.

Roxanne! Get up. You have to get to class already!”

Her daydream crumbles and she gets up.

Mother I know that!” she shouts in an indignant reply.

Stupid school,” she mutters as she grabs her bags and rushes out the door.

There is a new girl at the high school. She looks a lot like Roxanne and even acts the same in so many ways. Roxanne is suspicious and doesn't get a good feeling about her but all the girls want to make friends.

Roxanne. What is your PROBLEM?” asks Marianne.

Yeah Roxy. Too much heat with the new girl? Come on... she reminds me of you and everything. How bad can she be?”

You should stop talking with food in your mouth Beth! I can take it. It's just something about it gives me the creeps!”

-What about Friday?” Roxanne asks to avert the subject. “Thinking about SKATING?”
The girls all start to laugh and find their lockers.

Sabotage 1998


Roxanne meets Diana at several places now. Diana has a habit of appearing out of nowhere and attends the same events. Roxanne's boyfriend has a similar acquaintance. His name is Peter and he arrives in much the same manner. Peter has even taken opportunity to make a pass or two at Roxanne. Events are plagued with the arrival of one or the other.

Roxanne's boss is fuming this morning. As she places her bag on her center office desk and looks up she sees him marching straight towards her.

“Where on earth have you been and why is my report covered in coffee?” he demands.

It's nine o'clock.” say Roxanne. “I'm on time.”
No. It is not nine o'clock. It's currently ten in this time zone. Explain the coffee Roxy. What the hell is going on around here? Everybody's got a case of the god damn crazies it would seem!”

Mr. Elgin slams the wet report on her desks and walks off to his glass encased room.
Roxanne is stumped. She sits down in her chair and stares into space. All she can see is one big imaginary question mark.

Dailin has a similar view of his day. The trucks full of fresh turkey never arrive at their destination. Four thousand people are wondering what to make for dinner. The golf course chef is blasting the telephone answering machine. He clicks on the small black and white television to see if anything out of the ordinary will answer his problem. “Breaking news,” says the reporter. Almost on cue, he thinks. Even with the volume shut off Dailin knows exactly what he is about to be told.


Round Up

One by one the twins are identified. The transport trucks are no longer filled with turkeys or cattle or livestock of any kind. There is a howl from the highways that lasts from Alabama to the swamps of the Northern lights. The clones are classified by DNA markers first stolen from the babies who complained in their mothers arms as swaddling blankets were adjusted around them decades ago. The ground crews wear radiation proof white suits to stave off the reactor's damaging waves. They march through the open pit that resembles a roman stadium as they silently take care.

Monday, 19 March 2012

Re-born Zombies & Dark Machine

Re-born Zombies & Dark Machine

I
For those born at the base of the volcano.

There is poetry in the Morbid,
Dark kleider, black hosen my liebling, mein schatz,
And arguably too; there is light.
We can define it in part
Division by night
That which permits 
Silver moonbeams to streak our sky
I send these to you.

I've been thinking a long time about that dirty machine.
It goes in the food
Consumes and destroys.
The greasy pride of our culture
Sell more
Enslave the tiny
While their fingers are still nimble
Make pretty dresses for ruffled children.
Same story
Long time now.

Oh novelty!
It is gone.
Purchased excitements
Dissolve 5X faster
Than ever before.
Our emotions are thirty percent more
Delivery available 
Act now.
Fleeting at best
Nothing at all
Most of the time.

It is a dirty machine; a shameful machine
With stale invented values
The way we print money
Or create mountains of waste
Hidden away
Like the endless glass bottles of an alcoholic.




II

Preachin' To the Choir

Our culture is a bleeding pool
Flogging along
Of no consequence
Please; revalue
Then click 'verdict'.

Candid creatures of the night
Seduce until taboo completely burns out.
Border lines crossed without passport
Long ago Chomsky forewarned
About imminent peril
Ants tossed at sea
Existential remnants of designer jeans
Goethe's gothic hands claw at the sky
A virtual eternity.

Sunshine preachers, rise from the dead!
Our leaders no longer bathe in compromise
Our chorus sings when happy.

And if the bottom falls
Out
Of the wet ice-cream carton?
Do you rediscover life back in kindergarten
Sharing
Quantify joy in the colour blue
Be thankful for the love we have
Or something to eat.


The gummy sutures that make trails on my arms will heal without infection
The black raccoon eyes that frighten you will fade
Our waters have time to recover.



III

Volley

Minus the chemicals from our meat please
Polluted children
Idle, slapping their own heads
Intestinal leaking mass.
Profit the cows
Grow fastest
Consider the disappearing males (nothing).


I watch friends slide
Into greed like tar pits
Devoured by it
All things human dissipated
One-eyed monster
Locked in focus
Sparing nothing
A totally clear-cut thing.


I would love to have coffee hon
But the boss runs late and
My cubical
Is shrinking
My personalized plastic wrap
Time's up.


IV

So Let's Dance, The Last Dance

In an instant
Wipe it away
All conjured images
Brush the scales from your eyes!
So that at once
The retina readjusts
Your blurred images are in focus
Light is soft
Beautiful again.

This pallor
Takes on form;
A slinking panther
Its prehistoric twin
A type font animal
Swims deep below us in the cold underworld water.

When your stuff is done
And mine is too
We will meet in a Grand Hall
Where we recognize each other's soul on sight
In some great cloud
Created by us
On an island once imagined
But forgotten about.

So let's dance this last dance
I just assume
You can hear the music
I play for you now.


Sunday, 18 March 2012

Poem: The Chocolatier

The Chocolatier

I pour the thick liquid
Slowly
I think of smouldery things
Like chicory and strawberry.

It does land
Eventually
Into the heart shaped mold
And layers on top the pink stripped candy.

In it
Is my thought
A small edible piece of idea
Something to cover your tongue
If the day gets sour
Or bothersome.

There is no fighting allowed in my small candy shop
We only have candy if it is made properly.
I open the small cross framed wooden window
The air is spring and sunshine burns off the early morning fog.

“Good morning”I say to you.
“It is my dear” you reply and kiss my cheek on your way out the door.

Saturday, 17 March 2012

Bought and Sold (Heart and Soul)

Bought and sold, I fell in deep with it,
Bought and sold, nothing left to do,
So badly...
Because my neck was held,
Stolen funds in the night...

Bought and sold, With no alternative,
Sisters too, pushed around some more,
Never forget it...
No more to kiss good night,
Vapor in mist.

“But now I see, what one embrace can do,
Look at me, it's got me loving you,
Madly...
That little kiss you stole,
Held all my heart and soul.” Heart and Soul Frank Loesser


Friday, 16 March 2012

Poem: Love Notes From The Grave

Love Notes From The Grave

My eightieth birthday.
I find your photobox
In it are fifty seven love notes you sent me over the years.

One man
One direction
I never realized
You wrote so many
So you knew everything
Me tring to understand
So alarmist in my fashion
I say each time
“What do you mean!”
And I don't understand you
But they are love letters all the same.

Such lies at the same time
A double shot at the bar
Rest in peace my love
I know they are all over the house still
Tucked in books
Under the laundry hamper floor board
From beyond the grave
You send your final transmission.


Monday, 12 March 2012

Poem: Triple Blind

Triple Blind

I have three eyes
In my house
All from different planets.

When the people started coming
To fix the problems
It was the usual human needs
And so tired, they were beyond my scope of practice.

So three eyes watch the life play
Now installed on the front of my head
Ironic since I never believed in that stuff
I look a little funny,
And autistic-ally shy worry if people are staring.


Sunday, 11 March 2012

Poem: The LAW of THE EXCLUDED MIDDLE

The LAW of THE EXCLUDED MIDDLE

Tyrants who wouldst believe they may conquer own their people
Who would take hostage the souls who would once love their glory
May be met with some unaccounted force.

Justify your message Tyrant for some criminal pursuit
Spread lies to keep out those who would oppose your method
Believe me no human is perfection, no criminal would out run our law.

The stories of truth are contained in folk music.
Evolution happened and schooled by the conspiratorial hippies
We all discover your illusion simultaneously
Neighbor to neighbor
Friend to friend
Brother to sister
Cousin to cousin
And yes, notes on the subway.

Waldon told me a story about a dream that couldn't really work
For many reasons I suppose, the means for application out of reach
Too small yet; the state of malicious immaturity still popular
I accepted that for the good of the people.

Game change now
Civility still applies
But your product Tyrant is bullied children who choose a different option
The one's who reach for something other than a coil of rope
Because they are not alone anymore
And so many, so many are not children.

Friday, 9 March 2012

Short Story Fiction; The Charm June 2004

The Charm 
Originally Published in Anthology 'Cinders', June 2004. I haven't read it in a while but I remember the premise.
Part I
The charm of such a time rested in the hands of random order. Imagine, just for a moment that all guns froze. All those with angry urges to kill sat appeased like children consuming their ice cream and a saline sort of love slithered like wind-swept ribbons through the air. Bright gold lights and yellow walls illuminated everything with large cartoon-style lucky charms of optimism. This may represent only half our colourful emotional spectrum but let’s agree it is so for the sake of this tale.
Suddenly, all people paused. Just paused. All clink and ring and bells, all sirens dwindled- unwound right down, until everything fell silent. Car motors choked out in the endless lines of traffic, their headlights first flashing on and off only to die out completely. In every bustling place of business, every morning-swamped restaurant and logo plastered coffee house eyes lifted slowly, expectantly towards the ceiling. At one such location a waitress abruptly sat herself down, folded her black plastic tray into her chest with both arms crossed and muttered ‘-hun’ to no one in particular.
Every person and inanimate object waited for an Omnipresence to make its entrance. The feeling was like you just knew you were going to miss the next bus on the line home. Later politicians would denounce the entire incidence as one of an electrical generator malfunction somewhere outside the New York City limits.
But this is a tale of love. Never mind how the governments attempt to spoon feed Joe Public repackaged pabulum.
This is not the kind of love between an expectant mother decorating the nursery-to-be and a child waiting to see the results. Not the kind between lovers who have wet the sheets with damp salty sweat, mapping out their first days. This is a kind of love that only a faith-healed believer could create. It is the exact same belief that, even today occurs between that Village in the north Ozarks and a Great and Powerful Witch.
Are we in Oz? No, we are where you stand at this moment in time. 

art II
Dearest Beverly,
I thought it just a trick of the mind. Perhaps the events of which this letter is really about are already happening. I can’t tell- there is no High-tech or machines out here. I bought this place for that reason. Just read this and write back as soon as you can.
I have been alone out here for such a long time that I find it difficult to judge anything objectively. I affectionately call this place- my place, The Low-Tech. Hey Bev maybe you remember; my eightieth birthday is just around the corner. I’ve ignored the years and just kept going.
I’ve committed images of the blank walls surrounding me to my long-term memory banks. It had to be done. They are painted, white cinderblock cement randomly pitted and pockmarked with tiny shadowed holes. The holes often dance for me in the firelight and funnily enough, resemble a teenage fight with acne.
I have the usual gripes accompanying my old age. My vision is failing and if I glance at objects while in motion, they tend to blur. I haven’t seen a mirror bigger than the circumference of a tea saucer since I arrived late in the summer of 1972. The grass blades were sharp and green. Let’s assume I have wrinkled. My hands are losing their function more and more every day and because of it, I suspect that I will have to return to modern life within the year. I will have to go back anyways. The Shadows on the Wall have been repeating the same messages for as long as I’ve been here. Wait- then go back!
Before I arrived here I travelled through quiet mountainous regions in the United States. My modest idea of travelling had been to walk, through dirt roads with High-tech backpack gear and a thermal sleeping bag. For some reason I thought this to be a better than sound idea. It was there I met the strangest woman. Our meeting, by my perceptions then, was quite accidental.
I spotted her, awkwardly approaching my direction from approximately fifty paces. I raised my head from the view of the dirt road moving under my feet and noted myself witness to quite a display of fanciful oddness. Her black rag cloak seemed as hurriedly constructed as it had been thrown onto her back. She possessed matted red and silver hair, piled near a foot high onto the top and sides of her head. It appeared that she had made up her coif, creating a makeshift beehive. This donned her with qualities from some sort of a bizarre Bohemian age. Her manners too, were satirical. She walked in incessant half-circles, a native-like back and forth dance that created small dust clouds about her feet as she progressed down the road. She told me details about a pending and crazy moment in time that I should watch out for and I believed her. I believed what she said with every inch of my person.
I thought I should write and tell you the Whys and Whereabouts. You know, I was completely unable to ignore that bizarre encounter on the mountain. I bought The Low-tech property within two weeks of that journey and have remained here ever since.
I hope you get this letter.
Write Soon,
Love Stell

Part III

Destruction of spaces… blasted like a sand storm across black urban tar. Veritable riots, looting, rage incited running/ heavy panting. One starting the next upon the next- domino, k-aos deconstructionism, modern. Identities tossed like stained laundry. Nothing could tally as quickly as the damage came.
I hid in the back of my office unable to scream for fear of attracting something worse than what had already come. I was shocked white- the kind when truth has stopped your heart. It was all over as far as I could see, everything, as I’d known it. Dear Stell! I wish you could hear me now. My hope has dissolved. My urine collected in paperclip jars.
My thoughts were these- Magic Genie lanterns, UFO abduction, Jesus saving my soul, Elvis helping me walk again, reincarnation, a greater consciousness opening my psyche thereby evoking ESP, transmutation, transfiguration and eventual ascension. My beliefs had to outlast the Big Burning. They had to be greater than my circumstance or I faced an incomprehensive mental system meltdown. I required the sum of my latent philosophies to achieve critical mass. I know it is too late. These seeds are from fields of the past.
Part IV
Shhhhh! (This is what is believed. The written word. Ink printed into a variety of shapes on paper. Then, it can also be said that the greater the amount of words produced by machine the greater the word’s assumed validity. All logic authenticated by popularity of opinion. More people believe this—therefore it is certain truth. Democratic truth.)
The headlines read, ‘Boy Makes Get Well Card’ and depict a grinning young fair-haired boy balancing a giant construction paper crafted card. The card read ‘Get Well Soon’ and was an assemblage of multicoloured collaged bits of the same paper representing rubber ducks, fireman hats and geometric patterns. The boy’s mother repeated over and over how the boy had barely survived delivery and how there had been nothing but problems since. She chalked it up to past life crimes committed by the child and stated that she ‘was well on her way to finding a regression specialist.’
The story alongside the photo went like this: enraged by the losses incurred by mass society due to the k-aos causing pause, the precocious boy determined that he ought to make things right again and so, he sat down with his crafting supplies and proceeded to make the card, intended for one and all. He stated to the reporter that he “just wanted everyone to feel better”. And we can suppose from this, in concurrence with the laws of democratic truth, perhaps with the exception of his mother that they did.
(But nothing happened. Nothing changed. And nothing happened. Nothing changed. And nothing happened. Nothing changed. And nothing happened. Nothing changed. And nothing happened. Nothing changed. And nothing happened. Nothing changed.)


 

Poem: DUDE! They said: This Is An Experiment

DUDE! They said This Is An Experiment


Would you provide reason
To argue against the capture of a real monster?
Where is the money going? What are the laws required for capture?
This is impossible and we cannot help.

Old people scammed of their savings
Children we can't see
Homes and families destroyed
Horrible things are happening.

The vulnerable
Are beautiful
Children in the Rainforest
Age gracefully because you worked hard your whole life
Pretty and smart at the same time
An International Dream.

Nerds have superpowers
Nepotism is out of fashion
They did tell you smarty.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

Poem: Unedited~ Liberation By Bedding

Unedited~ Liberation By Bedding

It's a Doris Day
When 50's garb is ridiculous
And smooth legs are for the glide.

Clothing forbidden
It's your birthday
It's my birthday too.
Un-shy un-edit yourself
Cute men of the mindcubes
Liberation on the front
In a woman's way.

Curves and peaks
Dip into valleys
This is not your mother's landscape
A shadowy play on volcanic passion
A private display of lustful affection
Touch my
I look at
Gravity is beautiful
Human divine.

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Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Its The Children~ Second Generation Market Targets

Its The Children~ Second Generation Market Targets

I applaud marketing. I think I was the first television generation of the big brand product adverts. All our favorite toys and must haves. The soda to drink. The place to shop. Our kids see much more and a whole lot
faster.
What they see as popular has taken form in a total new idea. From what I watch the images seen are flash
pictures and animation. They are collected, like sea-shells as Jack Dorsey mentioned in his interview with Commonwealth.org. Although there are 'mature' social medias I think the most appealing means for messaging
with children on the internet is a modern version of the picture story book and it is www.tumblr.com/


Poem: Forty Daze In The Desert


Forty Daze In The Desert

I took that long journey
Out to the desert
Spike fallace
Rhymes with palace
To the rocks and the sand and the sky(lab).

I need to face Myself
Strike a deal with God
Higher-self, Omnipresent Energy, Faith Creator
The eye of Raven
Shaking rattle of Cocopah.

Stop the train!
Just one minute alone
With you
Just one minute please
And then we can return to work.

I stand in the sun
One-armed man I'll find you
Look up
Look around
Oblivaceous Cormorant spots snake
Drops from sky
A snack it thinks
More please it says.

Locals tell rumors of a villain
Spinning eyes
Habitat: Cave
With a thousand enslaved dogs
And a blimp for fast escape.

Blimps are used when people know they are doing wrong.
Caves are used when people try to fly to the sun.


Tuesday, 6 March 2012

Love Poem For Jack (Some Guy)


Love Poem For Jack

This is a love poem for some guy named Jack.
Man! He's a brawler.
Deep exhale
I get all spun up just thinkin' on it.

You should see him tear down the highway all rebel-like in his black leather jacket
He rips up the punks like a preacher on Sunday
Takes out the poison with his lips
And spits it in the dirt.

All the girls are just dyin'!
He can barely keep'em off his arm
Universe size magnetron dines where he likes.
Don't tell my dad I'm crushin' he'd send me to my room for sure!

You should see this guy named Jack
He'll make stories into legends and girls into woman
Man! What a Baller
The G's got it all going on.


Poem: Between You and Me CENSORED VERSION


Between You and Me Early 9:35am

From me then,
Just me
Not the world
No assignment to Universal translation.

Iambic pentameter Romeo
You flex your massive muscles
This is Venice beach
And I hang from your very arm.

You ask me about rock stars
I say, and What would I do with that?
Lasting only til morning
The brilliant only speaking one language.

Didn't you know I was clamped down
Strapped to a gurney
Injected for treasox
The skin on my face peeling off
Just having clean water a challenge
In first world
What the hell
'You can find a job' you said
I couldn't even find a door.

But I returned
Inevitable
My curiosity
Magnetized to fate
Guilted into contributing
Propriety
Stop the freakin fights!

I don't give a damn about the past
It is just not the point
A lawsuit for damages
An unjust egg-beating of young brains
So much for investments.

They're writing songs of love- but not for me.
A lucky star's above- but not for me.”

So get jealous if you want
Be a tyrant
I'll love you anyway
Prepare for countermeasures
Because your implication is not very nice.
Yes it is our killer future
I'll support the sport of it
Because I trust your fabric.
a million dollars