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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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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.

My soul is bruised
I bet yours is too
Maybe we belong together.
The passion broken mass
Meets weekly,
Groans at itself and leaves.

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

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IMG_1048

Ceiling Fan

The download link above is for the audio (m4a) which I sent out for my podcast (I couldn’t justify hitting my subscribers with a large podcast). You can download various video and audio formats from the Internet Archive.

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Vimeo Mirror

The percussive thud isn’t from the fan, it’s the heartbeat of my soon to be born niece or nephew.

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In Saginaw, in Saginaw

The wind took a dastardly turn
In Saginaw, in Saginaw

Oh it rains x or y times a year
In Saginaw, in Saginaw

I know you’ve had that feeling
In Saginaw, in Saginaw 

Oh I know you’ve had that feeling
In Saginaw, in Saginaw 

In his free time, and it’s all free these days, he throws together spiders that run databases stitching together relevant data to plug into variable fields in his poetry.

In “In Saginaw, in Saginaw” it queries for the average yearly rainfall for Saginaw, for Saginaw.

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All is all is now

a new poem, then,
without tangle
or predecessor
a true poem
born now as
mosquitoes bite
and sweat beads
and I’m not thinking of you
before the sun slips down
breathless and weightless
our story played out
against the night sky
I can’t help slipping into it
it’s a natural law here
momentum, inertia,
trajectories too expensive to alter
the moments sweep past
you and you and you
against the sky
a prologue, then, or epilogue

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Saturn, My Love

Your love is plumb round
The planet from you
And you got water to collect
For Earth, they ran through
Their supply allotment
Long time ago
And it’s on you
And your love is plumb round
The planet
Also collecting water
For home.
But no one thinks about love
As they dismantle the Jewel.

If your eyes didn’t sparkle

If your eyes didn’t sparkle
I wouldn’t be lying here
Seeing them in the night sky

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Communion

Introduction

Dronecast Episode 19

Main Content

“Stop! You must curtail your bizarre behavior,”
says the man with the stick,
“You really must,” he says
adjusting his hat.

But, he’s not talking to me,
he’s talking to the creature we become—
in the stretch back to the first realm.

“Adjust behavior and commiserate elsewhere,”
says the fat man
“You really must,” he says
poking the creature’s chest.

The creature, call us Communion,
howls indignant turns back to the wall—
string dangling from our slippery hands.

“Non-compliance is unacceptable,”
shouts the rigid man,
“Unacceptable and you must stop,” he shouts
and we pay em no mind

We are disconnected from that world,
there is only blood here and glue and string—
this creation nothing else.

Poem | Podcast

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Farewell

This ended up being my farewell message to the cast and crew of the Red Dirt production of the Laramie Project.

I’m mostly all packed, and completely exhausted. Gonna take a nap before I decide when to leave. Whatever the decision, I’ll be gone soon. It’s been intense and I miss you already.

This is quite a high to come down from, I guess you guys know how to do it. I certainly don’t.

I feel like a naive kid that was pressured into shooting up, developed a taste for it, and then the pusher vanished.

I’m curled up shaking in the corner trying not to vomit every time my body clenches and spasms and shakes. Stinging sweat pouring into my eyes, mixing with tears and snot and need.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive y’all. Putting me through this. Making me care. Making me feel pain and anger and joy.

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Little make-believes in the shape of poems.