with pieces of bomb shrapnel,
the generational AK dancing its bolt,
thirty caliber potshots taunting the skies
like never before — such fever for jihad.

perhaps frank herbert had premonitions.
or perhaps this will always be us,
identity too entrenched with ideology,
competing ambitions bested in violence.

as far as anyone could tell, nature
only kept score with life and death

Digital Communication

life stirring in signal to noise,
high power in a narrow band propagating
the acidic vacuum of nature, its modulation
a treasure map, its seeds endowed with
self-perpetuation by error-correcting codes
and at the X lay a chest stuffed with bits,
carrying the whimsical utterances
of human thought, like a virus,
desperate and overbearing,
like insemination

it was not enough to simply slip a message
in a bottle and cast it into the ocean

to leave it to chance

Purple Shirt

it’s 9am and she’s wearing air jordans, cargo pants,
silky long hair, and a modest certitude that
makes you look twice — for once i can’t tell
if she got ready for this or if that’s just who she is.

another girl and another boy standing about
the airport, like everybody else, waiting for something,
projecting thoughts on a private 2 by 2 square on the wall

in the sky we leave behind the paths that never crossed

Quarter Life

we drove and listened aimlessly to late night 90s music,
maybe to submerge the conscious thought that
we never left square one. and in the static pockets
of the midnight radio broadcast, we wondered,
with open futility, who we were and where was home.
and it turns out there was nothing perilous or imminent
about the quarter life crisis — it was almost benign,
a contemplative tide that rose and fell each week,
each time gnawing, gradually, at your paralysis of identity.
    all i knew was who i didn’t want to be.

it was year twenty four when i figured out
the patterns of the stop lights


i was trapped each day by the need to do perfect
my words and overdue correspondence unwritten,
my thoughts foreclosed by a fictitious affliction, the wartime
letters of my feelings prematurely censored and undelivered,
my whole city on track to be the one blip that disappeared
on the next pass of the radar sweep — incommunicado.

i knew this and spent each night in an uncreative, tired daze,
of nothing but time-draining distraction and the persistent
wonder about those who waited on the one email from me
that i could not find a way to write — imagining their patience
giving each day to the kind of apathy you read in the remark,
    “oh, don’t worry about it”
which meant that i was already too late to convey
with any conviction that i cared. but i did…
all too much.

(inbox 130)


shoelaces were the last anachronistic holdout.
it was twenty fifty-five when they became vintage,
and the twentieth century man would barely recognize
any of the contraptions that inhabited everyday life —
nearly all things harbored intelligence, and even the
simplest materials were engineered ones,
with cryptic properties that defied intuition and
theory that could take multiple scientists to explain.

but though we were long past the days of
saturating shannon’s channel capacity,
long past the days of analog and even digital,
reginald’s radio never left us. the night time still
bloomed with modestly modulated carrier waves,
carrying the crackling articulations of a human voice
to everyone, and no one in particular. to many,
it was the same existential distraction it always was:
the ambient noise of concurrent life in society’s womb,
a lullaby to quell the darkness that swallowed the world
and left you a little bit more alone in the confines
of your room, wondering.

we never yearned to deprecate broadcast.

Inbox 121

the numbness of a long line,
the futile churning of a car’s repeated failure to start.
there was no motivation born of unfulfilled obligations,
nor the miracle boost of a well timed nap — only exhaustion,
every time, waking up in the light, and the quiet wonder at
where my energy has gone


re-animation begins with dissolving
a half-century of cosmoline statis —
mineral spirits are cheap, and like
all good solvents, coat your hands
in an invisible film of tack that
multiple trials of soap won’t strip,
and are volatile, wafting into large
spaces something mildly sweet
and most probably toxic.

i’m restoring life to someone’s former god.
a milled machine confidant that proved,
among other things, a patient scribe
to stories told loudly and only once,
written with strange scratches, dents, and
lead deposits to form a primary account on
history as nonrepudiable as it is undecipherable —
and in that there is both mystique and moral impunity,
majesty and oblivion, a tool living intermittently across
the generations of its own creators, because it was
engineered to both endure and admit their whims.

these are the days i feel a little bit more american.

Polaroid Frames

a future me rests against the bark of an old tree
and it seems my forest fear is long assuaged —
heavy dirt on my clothes — i’m clutching a rifle,
under the many pinpoints of alien worlds,
their magnificent lights sprinkled across
a deep blue wash like an eternal facade
manufactured by the imagination.

and i was no closer to placing myself
within this cold blink of time and space,
living in and out of polaroid frames
taken from an inseparable mixture
of dreams and reality

each day,
i secretly wished for enlightenment.

each day i knew that that was the
one way it would never come.

Delegation #2

in the 21st century, we took pills for headache,
weight loss, insomnia, anxiety, and depression
and called it modern medicine — most of us were
thoroughly clueless about the proper function
of our own body and brain, instead vesting in
the paraphrased conclusions of medical studies
sponsored by interest groups and mass media.

some spent a decade in a serotonin daze —
exhibiting the strange side effects from the
poorly understood chemical manipulation
of the human brain, a biological hack sold
to a culture obsessed with the quickest capsuled fix that
could be backed by a scientific paper touting correlation.

it was easier to design drugs under a reductionist model.