impress.ion

A stamped imprint is an impression you have on the world. Once the ink dries, the thing upon which you (the idea of you) have been fastened, takes flight into the crosscurrents of daily life. These energy fields we run in are countless! Everything changes. You can become something else in an instant! Years later we will all understand. Only then may they know, by what became of your impression, what they missed.

Advertisements

mindful among us

we are possessed with an urgency to make the moment the only place to be. there, there, all the senses are emboldened and urgency gives way to immediacy. you won’t require any further entertainment.

real.ity

I am on a mission to find reality. I won’t find it in my phone or in the dark. I cannot find it alone, nor in a crowded park. I step into my jeans my boots my leather jacket pulled around my hoodie. Here behind the wheel, eyes open and coffee steaming at my lip, waiting for this old train to pass through town, exhaust smoking in the cool morning air. A smile pulls over my face cuz I know I am real with you. Yesterday we ran. Today I’m gonna break out the draft of my book and mark it up somethin’ fierce. What is real? We are. We are real.

echo

echoes of yourself

alone as you may feel you are surrounded by echoes of yourself in words others speak when they address you and clothes they choose to wear for you to see and opinions they assert in a language you know cannot be taught only shared and is meaningful for you. together at long last.

600 years

we could keep us around by populating a host planet or why not go extinct right here, and let earth eradicate our species? we’ve had a good run. we could show our greatest virtue and make room for new species. we will look better in retrospect.

efface the place

Such a prodigious commentary rolled out of a disconnected narrative. All the ghosts of old mama Bell had to glom together as operators, pulling and pushing their wires into that old electronic wall. All the calls incoming got patched through, and where hello meets goodbye, a patch could efface the English language, in any such redirection, the power of the women at the wall, operators, any which way. And blue came across the neurons and fired them off like static and clung to the statement preceding. Contradictions were contradicted and life would go on this way through the world wars, and endless series of splicing and bringing people together through a wire. Afflicted with afflictions, some operators were, and found peace only after the in betweens of their shifts and smoke long breaks twirled away. Nobody always knew nothing could turn into something when a push met a pull and were patched away from blue to gray. There were often a few kids meanwhile caught like in spiderwebs, tied up in an apron by a hem.

‘operators at the hem’ by K