Hacking the Soda Machine

… see a note… send a message…receive a memo…send one back…

not back/forward. 
Record, Receive, Collect, Move On? repeat

ah…very well

moving on.

Time Travel Scars

My skin is pale again and thin like I can see a soft blue vein in my leg and again in the other. I roll my thumb over a scar on my knee when I fell on the pavement because I wasn’t looking straight. There is another on my lower back where I was burned by a hot light in the well-lit basement of the school where ghosts toil around taking photographic pictures. It’s the scar I hate the most. A small line above it marks where I fell from a tree 15 feet in the forest behind the baseball fields where our brothers played. Those were the summers we ate pixisticks and wrote our names on the sidewalks. My favorite game was called “Watch Me, I Can Do Dangerous Things.”  I’d climb everything and dive in deep waters and perform stunts because I wasn’t afraid of anything. Mother called me a daredevil. Those were my good memories. But those were my summers I was forced to burn under a white sun and perform a century of waiting on the dirty microwave bleachers of agony. This went on for years and it made me grow tired of baseball and the children who couldn’t play at all. Those were the days of dance and playing street hockey with the neighbors. Trying to break world records and of running, because I could run so fast and the speed made me feel alive. Those were the summers of endless boredom and exploring backyard forestry and of tennis in the driveway. We kicked around soccer balls in the abandoned courtyard and coined it our cement home. And I fought the universe in my summer house. And I have the scars that say so.

Lost Jesus

He’s nowhere to be found, I swear I’ve looked.
I looked in cabinets, in jars and on tables. I looked for God but couldn’t find him or his cheeky smile. The one that says he has a secret to tell.  And I never saw his wants of compassion and I never saw any good from his name and I never wanted to be a part of his fan-clubs and I never attended his lectures or listened to his teenage rock bands. I saw his book fill the minds of children with doubt and insecurities and falsities of monsters and stories of a magic street-preacher named Jesus. I never saw but never looked for answers to things I could read in other books.

Revelations

I burned alone in the same old chair

I sat for a year and didn’t care

That death was near and I didn’t know

If I could run from him

Electric eyes stare down at my shoulders. They rotate violently in a series of hypercritical gazes, and with a narrowed focus push images of an abandoned cottage and a demon raven into my dreams.  Am I some experiment or are these portals real? Angels hide in mirrors and break the glass when they see the worst of men. They’ll never speak because God gave them no voice to sing through. He left for they to watch a disintegrating world, trapped without human air to breathe.

The glass breaks and the alarms go off and they fill me with a nothing so strong it makes me sick… but complete. I lie in my bed and sink into the fabric. Close my eyes and I fall through the mattress and into NIGHT. Dark swallows me and the electric eyes now fill the ceiling. This place is foreign and there are mountains as old as the universe. We are all made of stardust. This place is beyond time. It belongs to no known space and it is here that I discover…

We are angels of chaos and live to ask “Why?”

Concordia

If music were a net, then each chord of noise would be a cord, a line in the web. It’s a soft material — electric — and I want to roll around and feel every vibration and shock that is sound. I’ll let it spark my arms and lyrics will move up my spine and roll through my heart. Capturing every move made into music and wrapping me in joy.

Verona

We spent four months in Verona, living life and exploring every rock and wall.

We got off of the bus in a crowded parking lot and didn’t know where to go.

We slept in a loft with another woman who would sleep only in white underwear and her dark protruding belly.
And the bathroom had a glass door. And the shower gave no hot water.

We would pretend we were locals and give direction to the tourists for pennies.

We stole apples for dinner. And made toast in a broken oven.

We slept on a street bench that one time when I was too tired to walk back to our loft.

I lost you in the park where kids met to smoke cigarettes and escape their parent’s eyes.

You found me in the market buying jeans with white wings painted on them.

We went to a fair where one of my shoes got lost under the spinning ride and you got it back for me.

We went to the arcade and you beat me in air hockey three times.

We listened to American music in an Italian cafe.

We hitched a ride into the city, the car was red and the license plate was yellow.

We walked through the ghetto aimlessly for hours.
I jumped over every crack in the shattered glass pavement.

We talked to a prostitute in the suburbs and she taught us dirty words in Italian.

We played soccer on the concrete playground with our new friends.

I left you in Verona with your perfect everything, and caught a ferry to Greece.

Slices of the Moon

Egypt is watching me

Hello.

From the walls of a dirty Detroit apartment.

And a broken world.

Full of artists

Full of wanderers

Full of the uninspired

Who sell their secrets in earth  and electricity
Where young smokers collect and breathe in the collective filth of their lament. Their sickly smiles commune nightly. Proclaim your dissatisfaction! But live instead in lonely visions of the future and the cove you nightly return to when you take your scheduled break from everything. And nightly you look, down the always present John R pavement that ends where you can no longer see, right at the Science Center and the traffic light on Kirby Street.

While the lonely and curious look down at you from their tall windowsills.

Hello Egypt.

Is it night there too? 

Or do you see my leftover Sun?

Bombs Could Hit in Bouquets

i’d rather watch him sleep

than want to sleep

i’d rather write this

and capture him

in nightly dreaming

he yawns

and it hits me with comfort

his purple sheets

wrap my legs in heat

as they connect us

tonight

a cool blue

filters through a dirty window

lights the shadows

in his hair

nothing else exists

nowhere else ought to

be real

i quit and sink into my pillow

my brown hair sinks

into the shadows

of he

and he knows i am there

and in his sleep

moves closer

and puts his hand on my side

he breaths and sometimes

forgets to

his forehead leans

on the back of my neck

i am going to sleep,

and think of this

and think of nowhere else
and tomorrow may be there

but if it is not

then I am okay

here

Drunk in Math Class

If I were wasted all the time

Senses null and deaf and blind

Trying to stay awake how

By keeping my head up

And writing

Nonsensical gibberishical…
I can’t read this.
what