the opening is tbd…

byo latchkey

we were…

latchkey kids. made deaf beneath

the wall of sound

of the industry

of the landscape
in the head
we played arcade games
to recover and chewed bubble
gum and drew on ourselves
with ballpoint pens
dumb kids. not stupid just
contextually thin

lacking or without sense or

the means to make
sense

hungry for relevance
starved of context

ignorant of our rights
we no longer studied our
country’s constitution
in high school
we microwaved tv dinners
and rode our bikes into the
night with duran duran baking
our heads by transistor
radio
stressed kids. the trance-like induction
of environmental stressors fill
the internal auditorium
teeming life of feelings acid-washed
a sensitive study of self
unreleased
abbreviated from an lp to an ep
the world stops when the record store is closed
the opening is tbd
you are all invited
statistics will be gathered
and fall upon us
with friends
new cokes slim jims leg warmers
byo latchkey

scrabble

 If i was playing scrabble and had the letters in front of me, I would spell out this poem. It would take an awful lotta time though, typing is easier. But if I had scrabble it would be right in front of me, the big letters carved on chips of wood, smooth and each with a number identifying it’s value. Some of the more unique letters, like X and Q and Z, are more valuable but used less. I feel like that, too. Maybe I’m a narcissist. Or just terminally unique. It would probably be best that I disregard all numbers on letter chips of wood. Why can’t those goddam numbers have their own chips of wood anyway? Why do they have to go ahead and latch themselves on to the letter chips? I mean, get a life already. Well, I’m sure they have one anyway. Otherwise the entire universe wouldn’t be able to be broken down to a numeric mathematical equation only the ancient Greeks could solve. I prefer the Greeks to the Romans. They especially know how to scam the Europeans for money when economic times are hard. Anything to keep the party going. I used to be that way. Party always going. I got real tired of it and now I’m the opposite. Life is still a party. But it’s a goddam working party.

K self 02.2016
 KatYa, 2016

Oddity #4

The atmosphere got crushed by populated space. Entities no longer burned to dust across the border.

Writing was impossible under these conditions. How to breathe again trumped the elements of style. How would i survive?

Outer space border patrol job markets grew exponentially. The highest paid among them was space traffic defense.

This matched my abilities perfectly, having troubled my parents for quarters throughout the early eighties, to play the arcade staple: Asteroids.