Monthly Archives: February 2017
not getting it ness
I fell into my own fantasy as a keeper of the flame for the children new to fresh books books books. Even fantasies have antagonists and she was a beast, she related well to the kids what with her smiles and false promises. They wanted what she did not have, and fresh matte finish covers became less attractive as the eyes tend to follow the shiny dangler. So what? An asshole relates quite well to other orifices, I imagine, and cannot recuse themselves from toxic flushing, outlyers from anywhere life might thrive. I could only bring a few around to the treasures of reading, but we could proliferate from there. You know, kids tell other kids about a book and soon everyone is reading it. That was the best aspect of my fantasy. Funny how it used to be a reality, back in the Harry Potter days, the Chronicles of Narnia Days. These children were born with google roadmaps of life, and Marvel movies where once we had comic books. Maybe if I pulled the old trading card trick and attached sticks of bubble gum to the spine. Anything to greet them with language and keep them from falling into her world, the common unconscious of not getting-it-ness. Fighting for space. Craving intimacy. Technologically sound. Animals equipped with smart phones doing three quarters their mental work for them. Grades by emojis and trading in texts, subjugated to a subhuman comment thread without end. I don’t even consider her subjects of the same genus as we. I just see elephant seals fumbling about for dying, flopping fish. Mammals with computers and electric outlets. Mall grubbing video grabbers. Android celluloid.
hierarchy of need
librarian by day
book burner by
night
the transition
was natural
gotta keep warm
she says
you understand
did it have
to be my
books?
story
journal
Journal # february five
A school of puffed up little clouds swam across the sky, chased by a storm, some were not quick enough, i saw them overtaken by the darker water vapors and manipulated into the greater whole. i myself was running, too, through a morass of thick mud and robust grasses, softened focus without my eyeglasses. i split into two and then into four (could have made eight if it weren’t such a chore). i once loved our leader, but not anymore.
story
weathervane
All the Hollywood icons
all the Bollywood icons
inspire us. they sweep our floors
in black and white
All the grandeur of southern plantations
made to capture the sun
arabesque
We live on through these times we made
the oceanic minutia
we consecrate
describe
classify in our tomes
Our differences we set aside to study
before bed. chamomile tea with lemon peel.
we fall asleep on them
We all do the same in the sun in the
day in and shade
out after
the same nonsense
iced tea
lemonade
sugar cane crystals sparkle
Our children ask for help
without having
to ask they ask us
help
we live we die
we live again
cuz
Life cannot end
when you die
you cannot really
you do not truly
die
unless you’re just
another asshole
weathervane
pointing
the wrong
direction
