What a summer

This is old:

Tomatoes in the garden wrought form the compost of my mind, possessive prepositions appear prior to the ripening reds. visually constipated i bloat my ego's eye he tells me I'm right, continue the hate. The streets are crowded like graffiti rolling down the train tracks- we are all messengers here. The clock tower still rings I only notice myself noticing. A handful of memories and a shoebox of lovers, a cock and eyes, a mouth and knives, what have we become? Montaigne's meditations demand forethought well we're simply short on time. Constrained by the Enola Gay and Television, the dollar signs and commodity exchange, what's left must POUR out of each of us, I hate you all, to preserve predigital humanity. The switch is coming, be prepared! offering coupons for continued unintelligence, Bliss! Once porn became free there was no stopping the empire's collapse and the moments of the galactic calender in which free will came to a crossroads. It's a Very Exciting Time to be Alive. We are the end and the beginning. My generational colleagues, we know the most. We're not stuck in either century but watch like the metal rooster who guides the wind, watch from our pivot of disbelief.

Finally

feeling comfortable.
If not tonight then when
I made her say within an invitation
granted I changed the content
but the context stays the same.
Finally
a night of reciprocal acceptance.
If not tonight then why
even bother with obscurity and names
given that tomorrow remembers
just the pillow's sweat
and frames.

Threw rocks from my pockets

 at the bigoted signs
laying against a wall
this afternoon.
"Someone's throwing rocks!"
and without turning around
we turn in to the alley.
I gloat  he dissects
the unintended consequence
of unrestrained emotion.
Old bricks quarantine us from
the few dozen old whites
and my tingling rage
realizes this individual
effects perspective of the whole.
But on the bridge we wait while
maybe a thousand of our own
march confidence and ideals
organized and orderly
toward tonight's tragic scapegoats.
I watch victory in number
counting faces not stones.

Push back

assuming every invitation is an attack.
Heretical to profitable situations
though sadly smug with a keyboard on the lap.
Stare at unmoving hands battered
by hangovers otherwise healed yet remains
remain in skin and tables for days.
Wake up from winter a little colder every year
while the sun ends its respite, glaring
new songs echo as I chip away the frost
on the mirror.

Absorbing old and beautiful and young and wretched faces pass me by the hum of my wheels spinning on the pavement. Bright white sun drowns my eyes and cools my sweat, slowing for danger would be lighting on fire this warmest of spring days. A few errands to find a goal in my wandering- the hardware store for a reflector on my backpack, the thrift store across my street for a sweatshirt likely needed in an hour. Packing up I turn downtown in hopes of finding food and drink I have yet to discover.

I park my bicycle and walk to streets I usually don’t. Near the cobblestone road that parallels the railroad west, an old building rises and a neon light beats the sunset’s glow. “the Depot”. I glance inside at the dim-lit bricks, order a beer and eat dinner alone.

There is an emptiness on the dinner floor interrupted by women speaking French or making wild accusations, young and old but mostly a dull purr. By the time the sun is gone my food is here and a train rolls out the window distracted by an exit sign and the string of lights around the glass. Romantic lighting really, but I romance only food for 25 minutes before turning inward, recognizing the loneliness of this empty bar. The restaurant on the right so mellow I fret not but make do, I fill my time accordingly.

Intuiting the relationships of the man and women working around me, their lives seem like an interesting extension of my own for such a short time. These are people, not bartenders and waitresses I say to myself after asking for another beer. Look, he’s doing homework back there and she’s talking about her problems. Why can’t we all be getting along without money and booze involved?
On the way home the dark dares me to desert my pride and flow with the traffic. I’m leaving this place at the moment I’ve learned it.

Not a damn

relevant discourse occurring across the country
right now or even usually.
The sphere of influence of intangibles
extends from so many pixels and codes
to provide the static we learn to love
to rob the wealth we don't know we have ha
ignorant of ignorance, how cute.

The damn interconnectedness
seems so obvious now,
though the oblivious see it
through standard expectations.
 Our rivers of commodities
 crash our lonely boats.

I sit in front of you

desperately seeking guidance from a source of light
THE LORD AND SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST?
The lord and master computer desk.
The only space that my time commands.
The only window that my time can see.
What's outside anyway but the distance between?
Networks connecting but dissatisfied.
A food chain of ideas starving
mesmerized by the thought of future thinking.
Instead held in place by unremarkable similarities.

(A conversation with Emmett Cavalier)