Interoperable

My love is an external hard drive.

During our last backup, he gave up. said I need more space,
And ran off with all my memories. 
I've learned there are creatures in this 
universe with 
fixed capacities to feel.
They do not respond to maintenance, they do not feature-update. They
cannot play nice with others in the 
sandbox. Dimensions set 
by their creator that they 
never sought to question. What is, what was, what will.
A pity.

My last backup, it said: "this overwhelms me"
"can you send me less information"
"this is too much information"
"I can't process at the required rate"
"I am not equipped"
- blue screen -
We're factory reset now, and I'm setting out into the 
world again with faded knowledge and greater scope. I'm looking for a 
storage solution that can accept
wide swaths of raw data from indiscriminate sources in any 
version of the OS - past, present, future self/ves. I can't tell you data 
type I can't tell you workflow I almost 
have a grasp on intended usage. Can you clean up these thoughts? Can you 
put them into boxes?
Can you map my tangents? Can you set this
aside for later learning? Can you find the patterns? Can you
determine cause? Can you model a future with
room for the past?

Can you backup?

Living: A User Experience

There is something abrupt about

A lack of loading dots prim-

ing the screen.
You, as the user, don't know if 

it will take seconds, minutes, 

months
to receive a meaningful 
response.
You don't know if things are processing, you
don't know if things have crashed.

You don't know if things are moving forward.

We live our lives through 

touchpoints.
The follow up, the interaction, any 

snippet of priming that brings the 

object or person back to the top of 

mind.
To remind you they exist.

We build experiences as seamless yet 

we live our lives abrupt.
We pause, we shift, we
jump from one thought to another --
One life stage to the next and we
don't know what to expect,
And we live in this state of 

uncomfortable uncertainty and
haven't we solved for that?

Haven't we created
loading dots?

Real Housewives

I don't want to be the well-heeled couple gushing
to another couple
about the many things we have bought and are buying.
The description of a carpet installation. The importance
of a theme-appropriate centerpiece.
Then I think:
I should be so lucky to make it to 40 and have a
normal enough suburban existence to appreciate
the mundane.
Revel in the negligible.
So what is it that I feel when I overhear them? Pity or
envy?
Each stomach spasm makes it harder to tell.

Tales of a Linguistic Anarchist

Am I a poet?
No.
I just enjoy being cavalier with
grammar and
sentence structure.
This masquerades well
as creativity.
I am fortunate to have found a space that
permits one to
tamper with forms and ideas,
cause literary mischief,
commit linguistic sins with impunity,
say "fuck off" to formality and
"hello"
to balderdash.
(tasty, tasty balderdash.)
These things are important to me,
not being a person who enjoys being told
what to do
how to do it
unless it is to do something particularly cool or
to avoid grave injury.
(hence the utility of mountain-climbing guidebooks)
It is decidedly misguided:
my appreciation for this space and
the freedom it provides,
as it gives false notions of what the world wants and
expects
from the ants that run it.
The supervisors of the ant hills,
the HR departments of the hives --
all with a set of rules and an appreciation
for the order they provide.
To those who say
"fuck order!" or
"fuck the hive!"
they will fine a certain amount this time,
the next requires a formal review,
and after that, well,
good bye!
Subversive use of grammar is hardly
the marker of an anarchist,
but
one would do well to obey.
You never know the list you'll end up on
next time you meet the TSA.

I Could Just Eat You Up

And she was all like "I want to devour you".
Because if there's one thing boys like,
it's girls with
cannibalistic tendencies.
There ain't no party like a
Donner party
because a Donner party is
BYOB.
-
Would you like some white?

To Suck No More

I would have called the other day,
written you a letter,
I would have posted on your wall
but then I remembered




...die.


If the world ended tomorrow,
what would you do today?
(not tonight because midnight may very well escape us.)

I think I'd tell you I loved you
then, take it back
then say it again
...then take it back
and then pause.
to let that all sink in
and then


sprint!

(The adrenaline equivalent of an accidental kiss.)

Then stop.
breath
adjust
fall over?


Know that you kiss me at your own risk.
I may forget
or worse!
I may not.
worse yet
I may expect you to do the same
the horror! the pain!
shield your eyes from the rays of the sun,
though your skin remains unscathed.



Oh...


and die.

Chasing Hurricanes

I would call you a rainbow but I
don’t mean to say that you’re beautiful or
out-of-reach or as rare a presence in my
life as a sun shower. Or that I can’t compel you
to appear because some outside force
decides how you come and go,
seemingly for a second. In the window of
my life you should be inconsequential: a
well-appreciated, fleeting
joy but I suppose the ephemerality of
it all has me finding you strangely wonderful.
I cannot chase you past the sun,
I cannot capture you beyond a
photo that convinces me in
times of uncertainty that you once existed.
The summer rain that spills in sun
seems to illustrate the coexistence of
futility and possibility.
I remain afraid
that I am chasing hurricanes
without noticing that the wind at
my back is taking me in circles.
You lace my eyelids when I
stare at the sun, you
soothe the sky’s wounds after it is
cracked open, you are meant
to lead to some greater promise or reward but
I know better.
I would call you a rainbow but your
sentience prevents me from
chalking you up to a perfect storm.
You exist with purpose.

Irrational Fear of Heart Tandem Skydiving

Years ago,
I decided I required courage.
My imagination runs away with me sometimes,
which is how I end up with these
worst case scenarios: heart hostage crises,
heart kidnappings, heart tandem skydiving accidents.
I have a Groupon for skydiving, yet
I'm still terrified of your opinion of me.
(and your opinion of my opinion of you.)
My self esteem has worked
tirelessly alongside my ego to construct an
appropriate Reading List, so that I may not
stray to the forbidden shelves in the library of
my long term memory as I devise a
best guess of what's on your mind (and
heart).
Real courage implies facing one's fears and
I hide behind a thesaurus.
Holder of parachute,
I cannot face you
and
if I had real courage,
I would face myself.

Continental Drift

I want to taste the
history on your skin.
Reveal the
entrails that form the parts
of an antique heart.
Childhood shoulder freckles
dot the i's of
everything I've ever sought to
understand.
I would follow the
trace as if Columbus sailed
with the intent of
discovering something
others
had conquered before.
I am unafraid
of untamed lands,
the rockiest of shores
that
mark the exterior of a
continent I have
only dreamed of calling
home.

Love Poem

This is a love poem.
Yes, I can already see you fleeing
at the mere thought of my
outreached hand and I'm over here
spouting sonnets.
Some
call me the gangster of love
and others
say
"you are a fucking idiot"

I love like the velveteen rabbit.
I don't know if you remember it,
but essentially
the kid loves the shit out of that
thing until its eye pops out.
Smothered by the infectious and
looking rather pathetic, the rabbit has
a fate involving tears, fire, and
hallucinations.
Yes, I guess I am looking for something like that.

I know you don't understand how I feel,
because if you did
you'd have to have the kind of appreciation
for insanity that would've had you
institutionalized
long before we ever met.
you see
love, this crazy, out-of-control feeling I
want to lock in my basement so it stops
knocking over the plates and making me, living room,
look all kinds of out of place
is
but an expression
and
you, though libertarian,
have really about had it with this
whole "free speech" thing.

Pulse

It starts with a
Pulse.
An EKG on a bedside
Table,
Beats dripping down its
molded drawers, it catches
your breath before it escapes
you. Chases
your racing heart
before it can cross
some kind of finish line.
What is an end? But a
ribbon waiting to be broken through,
slashed through like the
blades that seek it, the deranged that
crave it. The bloodthirsty waiting
for the cut. We take flight with
the beating wings that
propel us, with the hope that the
pulse
is enough
to carry us across the sky.

A Touch Off Base

In a game of hide-and-seek,
you
are my home base.
Even though I know everyone else in
this silly game is
running for you and
you are indiscriminate with your shade,
when I touch you
I am safe.

I guess the thought of another finding me in this
elementary school game of "Predator" still terrifies me.
I run to you, familiar and awaiting,
knowing your sole purpose is to signal to others that
I cannot be caught.
I acknowledge this is a poor strategy,
but I cannot help but feel that
even after all this time,
you
are what I am meant to find.

I know I have to leave you when my turn
is up, know this comfort has an expiration date
but I'm going to keep drinking this milk until it
sickens me, until it curdles and cannot be salvaged
by a simple shake.

There is a patent fear in letting go of
our bases
meant to protect us from those
out there,
intimidating and with
uncertain intent.
But we must learn to let go of the trees,
fences, and side-of-our-mom's-cars we clutch,
for they can and
will never requite our
desperate hold,
never seek us out
among the trees. They stand
stoically and wait to be found, and
they will always
succeed.

If you

If you let me
love you, I will
fashion my best words into
a lullaby and my worst
into daggers to fend off the
demons from your rest. I
understand you. I want to
watch over you as if my
presence could offer some
form of protection from the
things that plague us, the inner
ghouls that are impervious to the
walls we craft in defense.

Stars, making you drool, etc

Whenever someone asks about my writing process,
I say it begins with the moon.
The moon has served as both my inspiration
and downfall. (I'm looking at you, tidal wave.)
It weasels its way into my central cortex (or we could say brain,
or conscious mind, or perhaps the proper term for
whatever it is I am attempting to describe) and successfully
manages to steal me from all of the things I am
supposed to be doing. And nyan cat.

There are some who will see the moon and think, "what
the flippity-fuck am I doing with my life?" They will then
light up and feel slightly better about their uncertainty. Oo, tingles.
Others, self-assured by their grasp of destiny's best jams,
will wonder how they can bring it to IPO in under 5 years. Or if
the martian target market really does prefer convenience to
price. On a scale of 1 to 5...

Others will consider the magnitude and decide instead
to hide under their covers. A blanket can't save you now, bitches!
Also, there is definitely extraterrestrial life because the person I
love is not of this earth. At least, that is what my
shrink/mother told me. I will send out a ship
straightaway to survey the landscape, pick up
an earth girl or two. Chicks dig rockets.

Perhaps there are others who sit beneath the
gigantic orb of what is surely the greatest cheese this
universe has seen and contemplate love. Is that guy I
text at 2:30am every-other-half Thursday also looking
at this thing? I wonder if he's into gruyere...
They, hopeless wanderers, walk directly into the
park benches guarded by the local homeless with their
heads tilted upward. Then, the sprinkler system turns on and
they suddenly realize they left their keys at home, along
with their wives and stash of real estate porn. They have managed to
once again sleep-walk themselves out of the
comfort of their homes to look at a hunk of cheddar.

I envy the comforts of the suburban life: the patch of grass,
the motion-detector alarm. The coolness of a breeze caught off rt 46...
 Ah, things. I would accept them all if you were also there to
glare at the leaky faucet at 4am or laugh about the mouse we'd
name "Earl" who lives in the lower-left kitchen cabinet. Smart fellow,
he undid our traps and stole the cheese. We had to keep him.

for the birds

Is the day beautiful,
or
did you make it so?
I do
not think I'll ever know.
I am content with
the uncertain if
it is you
who keeps me
on my toes.

I am perched on this
sturdy branch
sticking out my neck --
save me before I fall
(unless)
it is into your nest.

Second Time Around

I will kiss your face until
it stops recognizing me. When that comes,
I too will call Lacuna and
beg for the offending stain to be lifted,
like the best of dry cleaners.
I pray for enough time to properly
wear out this shirt with sleeves,
hope for enough memories captured in
its threads before its edges fray, irreparably
damaged with no chance of
a replacement button or bow. I shop exclusively
in second-hand stores, knowing all the good
things have
had a time around before.

Past owners who have
hung you back on their shelves then
released you for a tax break, I thank them for the
opportunity to cavort in your wrinkled strands,
sturdy and waiting to be picked up again, set aside
amidst drawers of thousands of other multicolored
rags from styles past to be reimagined, recast as
another's outfit. The uses for you may not end with
a stash to the back of the closet,
my dear,
you may be found again.

A Senior Design

I have attempted to put words to this many times.
many times tried, many times failed,
many times staring at a screen glaring
at me for my finger's inadequacies and my
mind's inabilities to satisfy the source, fill
the page with what it seeks, separate the
forest from the trees of this deceptive, deceptive
imagery floating precariously above me begging to be caught,
snatched like a ripe apple in its improperly labelled orchard.

I have taken on scarier things: death, depression, and
whatever lurks in the deep dark crevices of my mind.
I take
one look at you and
my muse excuses itself from the table and books it.
It says: I am not getting paid enough for this shit.
I say: you're getting paid?
It shakes its head and walks off.
I guess you are the final project of this class untaken,
the lecture without textbook and a professor with an accent
from the kingdom of babble, the land of gibberish,
the island of the incomprehensible,
residing in the sea of
"I simply do not know".
And I, eager student, want
the A+ in this class of vicious overachievers.
I do side work. I perform studies,
I conduct research. I have a focus group on
"whatever the hell it is you do with your time when I am not around".
They have inconclusive results.

I salvage these findings, put them in a blender and
hope to God "frappe" means something friendly.
The shriek of the whirling blades, as they jumble and mesh
whatever intimate details I can find stashed in my kitchen cabinet,
reminds me of the hopelessness of this practice.
Irrationality being the "doing of something over and
over again expecting a different result",
I guess I am the poster child for the
academic office's demand for an extended "drop" period.

I still want an A, though.

Earth speaks to Moon

It is a strange centripetal force that 

tethers me to you, 
though you are a 
world away.

I cannot pretend I do not feel it, 

do not hear its whisper at 

my back willing me to you. 

You bring rise to my tide with 

only a crescent smile exposed, 

my shores you unfold.

Full exposure commands this lunacy, 

the new a darkened sky. I count the stars 

that surround you in jealousy, forgetting 

the distance in my mind.

My eternal fascination, the glow 

to guide me home. Every night I 

find you and yet 

I am alone.

On (Heart) Regressions, Digressions, and P-p-palpitations.

(Or, now for something completely different...)

This is stupid.
but really, if you think about it,
this whole concept of
sharing one's inner thoughts is
utterly ridiculous.
Random strangers
poking around in your mind's diorama,
knocking over the clay figurines and
sparkle-painted ocean you spent
so much time crafting.
they don't know how valuable those
cotton-ball clouds are,
only you do! why share?
they won't get it anyway.
(amateurs.)

I decided to try
writing from the heart, because
it gets bored sometimes, just hanging around,
beating the same monotone pulse... It's like
exercise for your love-and-loss muscles.
It reminds me that I have them in the first place,
which is huge. I try to ignore them when I can and
I think I could be sued for negligence by
the State of the New York. Let's just keep that
between you and me.

Also between you and me,
loss and love muscles get far too much
credit in this day and age.
"follow your heart" and related maxims suggest
that the heart is something to be followed, when
really all it's trying to do is beat a drum, so to speak,
over and over and over again until you die, at which point it
may begin drumming again, slowly this time,
pending "do not resuscitate" clauses.
It's not asking to be a leader, it just wants to
do its simple job of pushing blood and bits around until
there's a hostile takeover, or the company goes
bankrupt, and he gets fired.
Then he sits on some ice for awhile until maybe
someone important or rich or important and rich decides
he or she needs a heart, because he or she is
trying to start an indie rock band and the pacemaker
is simply a subpar percussionist, no matter how you scale it.

The heart gets far too much credit for being this
"sensitive guy",
just because he was willing to sit through a
couple romcoms with his exgirlfriend and cried when
his grandma died, somehow we think he deserves
"matters of the heart". Heart is a liar like
those people who rent leather couches for parties.
He's not the expert on emotions at all. Actually, he's been
borrowing emotions, (at a good price though, he knows
a guy... ) And by a guy I mean the boss, the mind, who got tired of
being blamed for everyone's poor decision-making, especially with his
reputation for being the best decision maker there
ever was. Pride before the fall, lovelies. Whoever decided the
brain was the best at choice clearly never met my
friend "eenie meenie miney moe" or my other friend, fatalist Tom.
Clearly these people never took a behavioral economics course,
or are too biased in their search to even
stumble upon an article telling them how silly
human beings are, and how incompetent they are at
maximizing their own utility.

Heart is actually the most famous scapegoat. But
he doesn’t care, he’s a sucker for attention and loves
getting referenced by every single country singer
there ever was, because for every song title with
“heart” in it he gets at least 3 cents. I digress. I digress quite a bit actually,
it is a hobby of mine. I plan on digressing in Europe next month
at the digressing convention, pending someone gets off topic enough
at the professors who forget to drink coffee convention to plan it.
Banking on a tangent always leaves you someplace interesting. Or
at least unexpected. Or at least three-dimensional, if we are speaking of planes.

"stranger's diary"

22/30

we found you on the steps
of an abandoned church in the countryside
looking for a home
you sat open and inviting to the occasional
passerby, should one ever approach.
page 131 cracked open, dog-eared with intention
begging for the intimacy of a close read
like a exhibitionist with an ever-unbuttoned trench coat
you sacrifice mystery for the simple
thrill of being seen
forgetting this is not the same as being known
or understood
for the abstract painting dwelling within,
sometimes it all a matter of thinking you are appreciated.

hold me like you would a thriller novel
clutching the pages with earnest
desire to see what's on the other side.
Getting high off the wrong turns and
feeling justified in the right,
fully absorbed into
whatever emotional connection the author
prescribes.
I write our story like smoke in the sky
look up while you can, before it absorbs itself
into the clouds.