I told you I Hold the Sound

Three notes all it took
They knew they knew the tune
And skipped on by

They’re skippers or seekers
Searching for the unrecognized
The never heard

I’ve heard your notes
But never learned them
I rehearsed and I sang along
And I didn’t skip on by
The song is only a trickle now
I’m guarding it with my life
Like the last tributary
Of a once great river
Ran dry from drought and misuse
You are wind chimes and crickets
And leaves crunching underfoot

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Ok, here’s the deal

There’s this thing around us
We’ll call it the world.
In the world events are happening.
We’ll call them current. 
The currents swell and wash
A path to the future.

We control current events.
We add our voice to the torrent.
We build the future.

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Drinking the Buddha

I don’t recognize the frightened drowning bee until the cup hits my lips. I instantly spit it out, and it slinks off, out of sight somewhere, presumably to die without causing me any more discomfort. Righteous guy like that, dying the way it had lived, in kindness and duty.

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At the end of the world

He presented himself as
Virginia Justice, American,
Red, White, and Blue.
The Monk asked if he’d been in government in his day.
“I ain’t ever been involved in government.”
The Monk checked the blowhard, shoving him aside.

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Division by infinity

small so small
infinitely small
non-existent
so small I don’t exist
even within my own species
my own hemisphere
or nation or region

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The Highest Art

Chastisement comes to us from the Greek,
just kidding it’s from Old French,
and before that Latin.
And you can follow it back to PIE and beyond—
To the first poet to utter a sound, and beyond—
From since there’s been vocal cords,
or rattles,
or hairy legs,
there has been chastisement,
and poets do it the best.

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Load and effort

Balancing the needs
of the artist with
the needs of the man
is a hard thing to do
beginning with it’s the man
writing this because the
artist is dead immobil-
ized at least, feels
permanent, tormented
and unable too,
but in there somewhere
is the eye, the last piece
of the artist recomending
linebreaks and howling
over word choice
and worrying about how
this will ever be digitilized
ones and zeros motherfuckers
it’s impossible he shouts
his last words and dies
back again as I’m saying balance is a pitiful word for what
I want to describe:
a fulcrum 75% along a beam
with the needs of the artist at the short end

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20140724-141231-51151780.jpg

Analogistan

You can stay out
He tells the cigarettes
You come with me
He tells the coffee

When he hits the edge
And can no longer balance
The composition book
On his knee

Heading out or in in
Search of a suitable
Surface to lie or lay
His book and his pen

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Dust_Plumes_off_Western_Africa

Jiggle em if you hafta

There’s dust a blowing,
sir, big as a a continent,
and expanding.
Overtake the hemisphere
say a couple a weeks.

Noted.
With an awkward pause.
Why bring it up

Likely extinguish all life.
We can fix it.

Oh, let nature run its course.

But, that’s just it.
It ain’t nature.
It hot and ugly,
vaporized alloys,
ionizing particulates.

Thought you said dust storm.
That’s more of a mushroom cloud.
You wanna try contain it?

Well, yes, sir.
I believe it would be
economically advantageous

The captain smiles,
and how so?

Cheaper stop it now,
than terraform some other planet

You’d be left with
half a planet to play with.

Half the development costs.

OK, good, you’re learning,
the captain covers her collector
mouthing you-just-want-to-study,
he nods,
she offers a hand, get me em numbers.

By the way she said em
it meant jiggle-the-numbers
and the handshake was a
back channel to someone in TR.

Um, shure will do that
he questions but corrects
with eureka on his skin
I’ll inform technological reclamation,
maybe be that there’s something for em.

And em meant us this time
a whole planet, for us, on the outskirts,
economically feasible
if you leave those details out.

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Notes

Think of it as code switching in the 24th century. In a culture where curiosity is considered menacing, while everything is geared to economic progress, and omnipresent data-collectors can't quite make out colloquial language.

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Fallout

He pounds the dugout
Hoping to shake loose
Grains leaves specks
Something, anything.

It’ll leave a bruise
But he doesn’t mind
Bruises show passion,
At least, for something.

Our souls are bruised
We belong together.
This passion broken mass
That meets weekly,
And groans at itself.

Specks, the lot of us, 
Hunting dust, tracking
The fallout of exploded
Passions. The dust
And grains of a hit. 

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Little make-believes in the shape of poems.