Soon you’re sitting in some chair
with your preponderance your
pool of feeling untranslated

unreckoned with…

now you got a Royal. glints
black beneath a gunmetal sky found its way
through the windows

stands there stern
with her keys
won’t make a sound until
you touch her

The year 2121

The days of laptops and tablets and cell phones subsided into a sea of fourth world residuals 3d printed out in the dark of light and night of day, via second hand servers globally attuned to pipeline transmissions.

Beneath it all was a bitcoin traffic jam the size of Luxembourg.

The royal family of Amazon decried the undercutting of their undercut. In senseless haste, they waged war on Penguin, which beat a retreat on a mechanical bird straight to Mars.

Cause despite all of modern devolution, everyone reluctantly confessed to their anonymous divinities… in this year of our (insert divinity preference here) 2120, penguins still cannot fly.

sudden breath (in my twenties)

Sometimes i gotta wonder about all those years. What i went through. So much sitting in denim on hard wood floors wrapping my arms around my legs and grabbing my elbows and holding tight; ¬†forearms pushing up into the backs of my knees. My eyes scanning the typewritten pages all around me. So delicate. Soft paper, hard wood. The lines in my forehead from crying. My eyes trapped behind lids, cause I didn’t want to see my life sprawled out before me. Then the spots. The blind spots, when I opened eyes wide. Sudden breath. The scenario was coming in so fast and down upon me, like a subdegree wind chill through gaps in the window frame. Shaking me up and shook me down.

Then I woke up. Again and again, just like that. Sudden breath. So close to near death. Spotlight of the swinging arm lamp in its antics. Hair on my head frazzled. Feeling frantic. Would life ever cosign my imagined, romantic?

Well. Dig my heels down and pick myself up by the heels of my hands. A sharp push of a young and restless writer. Unknown except by the same isolated subversive wonders disconnected in shades of darkness, tickled by light, trying to write, all up and down the avenues in spattered fashion. Then concentration. Inkwell spilled. How will i get it out? Permanent. Marked for death by impermanence. Superficially fried. Scars covering caverns of emotional deleterium. Broken branches falling off a potted idea or two. Sit in the chair and bang on the Royal.

When lost, I would try not to always fall back to the ground. Sit up, lean forward, and push the qwerty-uiop altogether as one unit, all the metal arms raised up and stuck together like one unified blunder just trying to stain the soft transparence of the virgin watermark. And I would lower my hair and head into the stadium keys all facing and watching me and waiting for a winner. Headbanger. My eyelids crushed row four, seat eight. Headbanger and mashed. Impressed upon me some sort of cold surrender. So then, before the midnight candle wick drowned in wax, I might grab the seat back with both hands behind me, pull myself up by the spine, and hammer out something born of pain and misgivings. Something special, perhaps no one would ever see.