I walk paths near my home
And think about breaking language
In pieces. I think about the shards
Scattered by will and hunger
Because so much has been lost.
And losing is still the wound that promises.
I walk to claim a promise. And to perform
The last spark. But there
Is no text to try to name it in.
We share the same energy from what soon is dead
But cannot, will not, hear what’s said.
Yet, I’ve no speech to catapult
To the generations or over
The failing framework of my threescore and ten.
Scraping by utter will and the hunger
Cavalcade of words that can never be
Googled. There is no “like” button.
No platform and processing speed
To hold you. I can’t hold you.
And I am so sorry we are lost to each other.
Pathetic hands want to reclaim “heart”
With the standard model and theory
Of everything. But I’ve lost the threads
Of explanation. No collection of
Logic holds sway. It leaks.
The Golden Rule speaks to deep space.
Entropy speeds up the code.
In a microcosm I see my steps
On the trail slow too. I force my feet to
Tred the simulated phonemes of earth.
A song plays in the background. Backslash
The dead link. My only echo to reach you.
The Practice of Late Stage Capitalism
In the world where we have replaced
presence for performance,
where the captured, posted and liked image
steels through our limbs and sinews,
and late-stage capitalism limits
what the eyes may choose;
three particles from stars already dead
pick your Facebook headshot.
Ah, the metrics of clarion calls!
I yearn for you to hear me!
I guess I am more a crack on the spectrum
than a Cassandra. Look at where trees limn
the heavens. For fuck sake,
look at how seed surrenders to the larger life.
For fuck sake, allow me to remember how
the world was
before the poison chill of any numerary needle of grace
scattered original blessings in the glass garden,
then pulled the rhizome prank
to monetize dark matters.
Let’s say God is in your face.
Free me from all algorithms
by knocking three times on the Tree of Life and
an anima of what’s left. God is dead,
that’s old news. Make the New Dad proud!
The standard model
invents space. Invents you,
the earth of rich and infinite zeros, ones,
then plants an emptiness in the cloud.
Repeat this 20 minutes every day.
The Green Coin
it's happened... we flip it through a dark path of product placement and algorithms’ pornography where the young disinterestedly wank and wait for nothing left to fall in their laps.
what i knew has no legs, and so it stormed no barricades, got filed. i see the neo-communards impatient with my stare and so disallowed they step away. their weight has primacy over air, the center topples a three dimensional mandala, and there is no joy in the residual formula of this rabid shelf life of drained desire. the desires of impedance. bloodletting returns and the circuits quit before any number of high noons. rain rusts itself.
crusty cassandra becomes a welcome paper rolled to slap the dog-blood snout as though discipline itself could raise a new song, hard luck hotels and schools uniformly loosen from the bowels of the city on the hill, the slippery slopes, the shadow under a bushel.
regularity where girls cut themselves off and on the arms, pull out their eyebrows and credit cards, slow pitch, plucky but underemployed.
regularity where boys face a jury of fractal peers, rejoinders upset, run away, rest and return in gonadal imitation, atavistic and copyrighted.
my youthful dreams and indiscretions both fell too short. my sense of an ending frankly corrodes. i might have wanted the abraham lincoln brigade, but instead saw trotskyites trash maoists in late sun at kerkoff…and then studied for finals with the Australian criminal in the occupied buildings. sendero oscuro.
pivoting in this protection you have in your even hands, pinpricks through the syntax and asymmetry with which to track the crossing of the sun, shadowlands caught in what looks like amber, the golden mean pragmatic to say the least.
what angel is not a terrible prayer, a matter of timing, a trust pocketed like a magician’s green coin. the symptom of a season of facts. the hermit hides peas under walnut shells.
be my silent guests. nice shoes. the dizziness of hybrids. we left you absolutely nothing, and nothing absolute.
ribbons for the third place finish or tied for honorable mention. Águila o Sol.