Sunday, December 15, 2013

What, Now, Have You Gone and Done With All the Wonderful Memories That I Gave You?

# What, Now, Have You Gone and Done With All the Wonderful Memories That I Gave You?

## What did you do with all the wonderful memories? (at some point this will all be rendered by a markdown renderer)

intro song, rough out of tune guitars, hints of feedback:



### actual piece

"I see that you are introducing some form of structure, now," said an old man with a long, rather unkempt beard. "Are you sure you should be doing this? Could be dangerous."

"Avast you old dog! Ne'er bother me again with all moodless musings such as your prior!" replied the fellow the old man had been trying to address. He was a younger fellow, but you could see by the white beardlings stubbling his face that even as a baby he must have been dealing with old demons.

"If it's going to be like that, why do you even bother to shave?"

"I don't anymore," said the man staring down into his chest, clearly wearing stubble over his face, and clearly indicating shaving activity. "I honestly do not, any more."

Here was a finger for prodding into the heart. "Lies will soothe you nowhere, young man. I can see the turn of your slips and whittle your selfish grins to bone." The old longbeard grew in size. "You cannot lie to one like me."

The young man grew smaller and looked down into his chest. "I would never lie," he stated. "I wouldn't lie if this was the last memory I would ever have of her." And he proffered the memory. "Take it. Take this last one."

"I'm an old man, I don't have use for cute little puppies riding a tricycle," said longbeard flatly.

"Well then," replied his younger friend, as they strolled through the cold streets of night Manhattan--the city that only sleeps if, well, somebody needs to sleep--"let me just toss it, then."

And there it flew, from his naked, gloveless hand as he proceeded further *without it*, muttering something about how using buzzers is not real shaving. Landed on a person who had been 'bunking' on the side of the street. On that person's head, specifically, waking him up in the city that never should have to. It was a warm, fleecy puppy, sitting on a tricycle, and now completely enjoyed by a homeless man who actually needed that extra lining.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Small Pockets of Intimacy

They say you only have 99 coins
being appended to your eyelids.
That you need an extra coin,
on your tongue, to go the way.

She says you need to give her *everything*.

"Everything? I just showed you how to access my heart!"

"In your secure tunnel?"


"So I'm downloading putty, and accessing your secure location?"

"Yes? And?"

"I'm seeing how you think about women."


"Wait...did you go to the IP address I gave you? Version four."

"Ha, lest we be radical and introduce greater acceptance."

"I'm done fighting. You see my tunnel. You see the light I'm approaching."

"You care more about driving than being with me," she said.

"NO! I'm driving because I'm trying to reach you," he responded.

"So you're saying I'm not reachable?"


"There is a place," I assured her. "Just you, and me."

"Nobody else exists in this place?"

"No, it's just you, and me. And that is us."

"What do we do, just crash land here? Lower the landing gear a little too late?"

"The landing gear is lowered as soon as the flight pattern is established," he told her, "and the course is known."

"Sounds like a bad plan."

"No, it's a *good* plane," he said. "A good plane with a very small pocket of intimacy."

"Brake. Apply Brakes."



Sunday, December 1, 2013

Where is the petty Shah?

He was famous for his translations. In one such work, we find mysterious ramblings, "Where is the petty Shah? Where is the petty Shah?"

These curiosities were only posthumously deciphered, when in his collection, a French audiobook for children about a boy looking for a little cat was discovered.

Saturday, November 23, 2013


As his coffee does suggest,
this man is more than a little bitter.
Sits in a sullen trench coat of leather alerting
passersby to the black pools of his heart.

Oaken table and oaken chair,
a murmuring candle that couldn't care less.
She only seats herself as this spill of rowdies
may soil her dress at the public house.

Their conversation starts aloof,
covert gestures regarding the fools surrounding.
They both put their elbows on the table and write out
essays about the dwarfs in the other booth.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Losing All Fear Of Wearable Devices (Or How I Began to Love My New Parietal Lobe)

It will become normal. I remember when I first came to New York and you'd see these people walking around talking to themselves, and I'd think "New York, right? Must be just another poor crazy person in the city." Then it dawned on me that they were talking on their cellphones via a headpiece as they walked. In retrospect, I can't see how I missed those large bulging earpieces from those days.

Wearable computing is the next step, and I think some of the technologies will progress beyond mere augmentations of ocular senses. For example, a small nugget that initially looks like a nose-piercing could in fact fan out a protective cover when, say, a foul odor such as someone passing gas is detected, protecting the wearer from having to experience that bad sensation. You laugh, but extrapolate, and similar sensors could shield the wearer from any harmful airborne toxins that may be making the rounds. Each piece must be carefully shaped to accommodate the nose it is intended for, creating a luxury business at the best of times and critical survival capability during the worst. Another change could be that instead of rings of diamond and gold--pretty to look at, but useless in function--betrothed would wear rings that if squeezed on one side of the world, would elicit that sense of touch right across the globe and she would know he was thinking of her (either that, or he spilled relish and mustard on his hand while eating a hot dog and was rubbing it all away with one of these 'under-sleeves' she had insisted he wear).

The step after that will be the trans-human phase, where the distinction between man and machine is entirely blurred. Vehicle manufacturers will either close down or be at the bleeding edge, offering humans the ability to travel at the speed of various vehicles, except without the vehicles--just their modified bodies. Employees at companies will be told to upgrade their eardrum with internally placed auditory motors which provide not only a constantly soothing corporate sound-collage, but also ensure that even those with worst natural sense of balance can do their job while walking a tight-rope. (Of course, savvy employees will have these hacked in the aftermarket with motors that help their bodies balance in such a way that they can step foot upon walls, and travel happily along the rooftop, upside down).

The tongue will be replaced with a sort of receptacle with a type of scoop that comes out and detects while projecting taste sensations at x1000 what we taste today (like the limits of human visual capability are known today, the limitations of the tongue will be exposed tomorrow, and surpassed).

Kissing a girl will never be the same again.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

A-Type Awareness, B-Type Awareness and the Whole Study in One Convenient Bundle

A-Type Self Awareness

This type navigates happily through trajectories in space. 

It's not interested about questions of gravity, or how long it has been since its last push. 

Its primary concern is to avoid things crashing into it at great speeds, and its secondary concern is to record any data that its sensors pick up.


B-Type Self Awareness 

This model is designed to work *inside* the dark matter, 
and keep a guided distance from the A-Type model. 

Given the unknown nature of dark matter, B-type is primarily expected to do what it can to survive, but always try to remain in a set proximity to A-type. It is unknown whether it will be able to carry out the task, but it was sent out there with the greatest intentions. 

Overall Self Awareness Program 

Since A-Type has no interest in gravity and only (for example) avoids objects coming at it at alarming speeds, it will be up to B-Type to establish a type of gravity field and 'guide' its companion through space. This is the *secondary* objective for B-type, not the primary objective. The primary objective is above (or below, depending on your display). 

Once comfortably navigating dark matter, a booklet containing instructions that was embedded in B-type's memory unit, burned till crisp and clear, will appear in its instruction set, causing B-type to interpret its space and create gravity for its companion model. 

Both models perform experiments, but A-type performs them along the exterior, while B-type does experiments about their internal conditions.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

For any records still spun on vinyl out there, (A personal account of NYCC 2013)

*Disclaimer: This one is part fiction, part reality


I *was inside* the New York Comic Conference. Ahem. Convention. I took photos. Some will soon be posted from accounts in my social networks at future dates as cognitive, motivational and photo processing times (in the truest sense, not just 'Photoshop') will allow. They're all in my cellphone right now, experiencing whatever it is devices do to data when left untouched for obscene periods. Many are even in 3D.


It was a hard journey to get from my Chelsea apartment to Javits Center on Saturday. I honestly could have taken the subway, or walked, but as my cabbie drove me along 34th to 11th Avenue, I watched loads of people slugging it on, many of them in *costumes*. I felt a little small inside, as though, maybe I should stop the cab driver (and cab itself), to see if any of the best costumed people should ride with me. Then I decided that would be creepy, so I decided to let him drive on.

48 seconds and $3.50 later, I stepped out of the cab, checking to make sure I didn't drop my house key or wallet anywhere in the vicinity of the cab, I emerged into: New York Comic Con.

I did a walk to survey the environs, and get an idea of the situation, then returned near 34th and 11th. It was 9.45am precisely and I  was expecting my brother, my sister-in-law and her two hobbits (one her sibling and the other her brother-in-law) to appear right around any corners of my eye. (I am a type of fish with these weird eyes that see in opposite directions).

Honestly, that may have been my favorite moment of Comic Con, just seeing all the people driving in. I couldn't help it, I began expressing a 'permasmile' (the inability to stop smiling, which if practiced repeatedly over weekly periods, this is not a desirable condition). These were my peeps!

Once I realized what I was doing, of course, I began acting a little tougher and even pulled a cigarette from my bag and began smoking in front of little kids coming in dressed as the Predator with their G.I. Joe fathers. Because clearly, these children know how the real Predator movie ends, right? (HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA)

Ahem (Kurtz is still in there).

Still, I was thoroughly enjoying this spectacle. It is so, so rare to see just herds (yes herds!) of people coming in to enjoy a good time with entirely non-mainstream (relatively) stuff. They had somehow packed in all the experiences of street-festivals in the city that always go on during this time, with one huge, huge mega-festival for everyone to come to visit! In one compact area. I was glad my baby bro (little one) and his wife arrived late, because I was able to soak in this amazing Atmosfear.

Suddenly, around 10:25 or so, well past our agreed meeting time (they were coming from Queens, forgive the poor souls), Little One tugged my arm and disrupted my imaginations. "Brother, we have to go now," he said. "We have been waiting for you for so long," he said. He dragged me over. I accepted his Little One tug and we began to enter the dojo of entrance, together, like all five limbs of Karateka.

My sister-in-law's sister and husband came dressed as very respectable Hobbits from Hobbiton, a town far, far away from Manhattan. They looked very good, and I shook their hands and felt they were genuine. I'm not good with names, so I can't remember their names, but I do know their faces. Actually, they were so well disguised in their hobbity costumes, I doubt I would ever recognize them in real life (which is a slight on me, not them). My sister-in-law came as the 10th Doctor, and I regarded her costume, and saw it it to be extremely well executed. (Later I would learn that she managed to find 10-30 other compatriots in the same vein, and that must have been some kind of fun I could never imagine!) It made me smile a real smile, and no 'permasmile'.

My brother came as a dude in a shirt and pants and a cream cheese bagel in his pocket. I came as a dude with a shirt and pants, too, (but no bagel). We never did a lot of 'costuming' as children. I mean, there was a play once in a while, for school, but it was never a routine thing like, say, the 'Halloween Tradition', so I bet neither of us feels truly innate in costumes. I cannot fully speak for my brother (maybe he would actually love to be put in a costume, especially if taken care of in the right way) but I know what and who I am. So it is highly unlikely I would wear any costumes (actually there is an old incident with my mother and grandmother, where they tried to dress me up in a costume and I hated it, so actually maybe this whole crazy theory only applies to me). Anyway, both of us ended up as plain guys with t-shirts and pants.

***Only one difference. He had a bagel with cheese in his pocket, and I was sporting a back-pack full of gourmet meats and luxury dinners***

Kidding, sorta! Anyway, once these types of introductory passages concluded, we entered the NYCC. 

Body? Any Body?

Once entered into boring 'round-the-block' entrance process, including RFID kisses and not any other types of kisses, I quickly told my brother and sister-in-law of my real plans, and made my own  way immediately to room '1a2x' (x here denotes that at time of writing, I forget the actual room number), and I managed to view a panel by IGN, a popular (but not my favorite) gaming magazine/cum web venue type thingy. Panel was funny enough and entertaining enough (and certainly different from other panels I'd experienced at PAX 2012 almost two years earlier). To be honest, it was telling that only IGN was able to make it to a panel in New York that Saturday. All those other places have no respect for New York (this is a jest, hopefully).

After that, I looked at my schedule, and realized there would not be enough time to Q and see J.M. Straczynski, who I'd (unknowingly) been a fan of since The Spiral Zone cartoon, but have probably been more so a fan of after his work with Babylon 5, a show I still deem better than any post-Shatner Star Trek incarnations (even though in subsequent years, I see those shows' merits too, and only because I don't care to watch any Shatner Star Trek incarnations due to personal issues).

Dejected, I made my way at 12:00 to the designated lunch area. I told myself this was the real reason I came to Comic Con. To check out the food.

(To be continued demain sur demande). Actually will be continued, regardless of demand.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Less Pointed Flail With Words

Sleeping with a wireless headset,
later, there were scratches to be found
in a lost position behind my ear lube.

Caused a pimple on October,
so large as to win any tuber
-slash-fruit awarding ceremony. 

pump·kin: a large rounded orange-yellow fruit with a thick rind, edible flesh, and many seeds. (Source at time: Google)

So much pus it grosses out
all the party girls, leaving
only true medic girls to tend to me.

This of course would be pure fantasy,
given I don't know, any longer, where to be.
Witch house to haunt? Vampires to hunt twice?

Zombies leisure suit & larrying round my throat, 
and Trevor from GTA5 enters my alveoli.
Combating vertigo and nausea, I tell him his game sucks ass,

he just dissipates 'n ends up watching Star Trek.
Not a bad ending for male protagonist.
Not even a bad engine for me. Who'll remain alive,

probably. During and past this--'Death'--of which everyone else speaks.

miss taipei-ing and missin-der-detention

For how many men do beauty pageants
really 'do it', these days?
With so much more graphic porn
at their manly fingertips?

So who do these pageants serve?
What is their agenda?
Is it simply a matter of keeping
with tradition?

Sure, you could say it's a
chicken 'n egg problem.
Without the pretty models,
you can't have graphic porn,

but that is patently untrue in world where (true) amateur porn is more exciting.

Or is it more because men have things like
their football (either version)?
So obviously women should have something
as well?

"What a great treat for you, girls. Have a pageant. The *men* will cheer for *you* this time!"

Please let me know if I've gone off
the deep end
(not with my porn habits,
but with this line of questioning),

I admit I may be totally removed
from the human condition of 2013,
or you may say I'm being really
naive, then back it up with examples.

There should be a pageant for women who can kick a man's arse to bits with her thoughts and ideas.

(and no, not his literal arse, his illiteral one!)

Monday, October 7, 2013

Some of my utter flailures

It's not really that late at night, 
just 1:38PM, mmm, but it is a dark sight. 

Nine were killed instantly. 
Cigarettes, by a wasteful dude 
who only smoked one or two. 

"The other se7en are just decor," 
he boasted,

and I felt, that was just a real arrogant thing to say. 

I challenged him, and got put into my place and onto my face. 

He said I can't 
be the one that I want to be 
because I lack 
the security key. 

I hope that's not just a 
video game type scenario 
to any grown up assholes

that read this,

lots of folks are 
as dumb as me 
and can't copy your QR code through telephoto.

Maybe before you begin to think about interfaces 

think a little harder about all of the faces.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

He keeps a Timer of Everything

Has an internal clock, 
which is wired across servers 
just so he can keep time. 

The decision to keep time 
this way was not made lightly. 
There was a time in the past, 

he would fuss and complain 
and worry about who is sending 
all of these times. 

NTP (network time protocol) 
if the acronym can be trusted, 
has (over time)

dissolved all such fears.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Vampire Who Fails Voight-Kampff Test

"Come on, don't be so morose," said the vampire to Robocop. "I'm sure that all you need to do is focus and--"

"The last thing I need to do is focus," he told the vampire. "Do you know what it is like, to be a machine? Purely a machine, and not anything else?" 

"I don't like it when you talk in those terms," stated the vampire. "I am a being of life beyond life, and lives beyond lives, and I see the same thing with you, Murphy. This is why I have come to commune with you in your solace. To see if there may be an opportunity for us together." 

His side armament flared for a second but he brought it back under control. "Don't call me Murphy," he told the vampire. "You know that was an 80s satirical 'laff', making fun of corporations and the establishment in general, right? It was sly, and they harped on a lot about how Murphy was this tragic victim that was turned into a machine by assholes." 

"It was GOOD!" claimed the vampire spreading its arms, to show how good it had been. "All my children loved Robocop from the 80s!

Don't you feel like those assholes have turned you into a machine too?" sang the vampire, whose voice was as though silk and cushions were passing your reclined and relaxed pose. "Let me place this down now," it said, carefully lowering an old candle between them, and lighting it with a quiet snap of fingers. "This is the oldest candle in the universe," said the vampire, "which I have now lit between the two of us."

He computed the mess that must be peoples' brains for loving things from childhood and did a cross analysis with the sort of 'easy-fit' mantra that seemed to be contemporary corporate America's response to the horrible slimy tongues and teeth it was faced with, and which placed very incredible demands upon it (Corporate America).

"Say you're a vampire," he said to the vampire from the hollow wax beyond their candid candle, "Say you see come across a rectangle in a sweaty desert that feels really, really sad, and is being forced into being a up-turned rectangle no matter what it tries." 

"It's nonsense," said the vampire immediately. "This fucking shape is pretending to be a tortoise." 


Later that night his neural battery was given a gentle polish by an excitable young woman who quickly ran away as fast as she could after doing the polish. In her merry escape, she had dropped her card for her book club. 

The rest of the environment remaining static, he studied the books she had been reading.

Friday, September 13, 2013

to ber8te

The kid opened the doors and slammed scalding coffee into Detective Mills'...areas important.

"Now follow me," said the kid.

"I shouldn't be here," said Mills. There, in the middle of the precinct, in the middle of a crime scene, with horrid and probably acid rain falling upon his being, with squad cars moaning in and out and strobing infrequent but sharp red and blue, with the same fucking taste of coffee he had smelled circa 1995, when Somerset had first met him, after they'd had a few conversations about 'morality' over a few whiskey nights, drawn over a few weeks.

"My mom just got killed near where you are, Mills," said the child, "and I am going to make you find her! You jerk. Walk!"

"What are you? Some type of hacker?" said Mills. He had learned all about computers in his long time under witness protection (as a cop), and evil hackers who can employ children in order to get away with their deeds.

There was more thunder. And more rain.

"Mills," said the child. "I just spent three fucking days in your office pretending to be conscious for you." He was crying. "The cops...they just hovered around, as though they thought nothing was wrong. And your boss...he thinks I'm some type of a transient. Lingering in the office."

The puddles around Mills' pants and sleeves welled up, and he wanted to touch each one as though it were a warm whirring water spout.

Mills picked himself up, and he was much taller than the kid. He picked up what was left of the coffee from 1995. "I'm sorry, kid," he said.

"But I just did a whole night of patrolling and catching all sorts of criminals."

The warm whirring water spouts fell off of Mills' special shoes, whose leather then bore no possible traces of said whirlypool. Only thunder crackled and only the coldest rain, in sleek drizzles began to pelt him.

"You saw the girl I smashed into the wall, right," said Mills, "like so much spaghetti bolognese?"

A look of malice entered the boy's eyes. "I don't think so."

"I know you did. I did it!" he yelled. "Straight into the prison wall, spaghetti bolognese!"

The child recalculated his own position, and placed himself near the dark hole. "That was just you trying to think logically why your old Robocop movie isn't as gory-realistic as the new PG-13 2013 Robocop trailer, my dear David Mills. It was you drooling into your youtube.

And I had to find someone. Someone nearby who I felt could care enough."

"I didn't care," said Mills. "I didn't care enough. And I don't care."

"Nor did I," cried the child. "The last thing I told my mother was that I wished she was my lunch box. So she could replace my shitty meal whenver I opened her with a good one compared to my friends!'"

"Your mother gave you what she knew you needed," said Mills, reaching out into the rain.

"That's what a cop would say," said the child, slipping away.

"Heh," laughed Mills. "Not a detective, huh?"

"You're becoming creepy. I'm going to disappear into the dark tunnel soon," said the kid. "And I hope you will seek me, detective."

The rain became slightly colder, slightly icier, forming icicles around Mills' gun.

"So at the end there," he nodded, and smiled. "Will there be another box or something? Is this what it is about? Me finding a box, and Playstation fanboys make fun of me?"

"After watching you for three days, I'm pretty sure any type of boxes are a big no-no," said the kid, sort of shivering, or laughing. "I tell you what.

You find the killer of my mother, and I will stand there ensuring no type of 'shape' or point ever meets you again."

Then the child quickly vanished/disappeared into the dark tunnel.

Now because of it is because Friday the 13th, we release the following issue: "T to 2 minus 10 Seconds to Lunch #eight"

I can't work inside cubicles, I'm just not used to it.

I know some people are used to it. And they're also used to 'desk space'. And they all want co-workers and co-partners, and someone that they need to deal with. They enjoy that sort of capsule like space moment.

"I've been beyond," man, I tell the boss as he comes into work. Spiderman's boss, I tell him I'm beyond all that shit. Don't really care anymore.

I watch him settle down in his beady little office with my beady little eyes. Heh. That's not just a mishap in my expression of prose -- this dude really has an office full of beads. I once tried to slice an orange against this guy who was clearly a porn channel for water cooler conversation:

"What's up with the beads in this boss's room, yo?" I asked, earnestly, filling my Sunkist bottle with cool, cool water.

Dude just walked away, ignoring me.

I thought we were going to make fun of the boss's obsession with beads.


Finally around twelve thirty, petty officer Charles walks in, dragging some petty whore into the jail, and he slams her straight into wall, and she splashes like so much spaghetti bolognese.


At 12:34, Charles sits in the desk in front of me and writes 'notes', apparently. He looks at me at 5 to 10 second intervals, as though I am supposed to hover over his desk and grade his fucking homework or something. At 12:45 I finally can't deal with it and tell this pompous fuck what I fucking think of him.

"You know they keep records of your books," Charles, "I tell him."

"Yeah. Cos of the Library."

At 12:49 Charles loses dietary control and must exit to unknown location. Nobody has told me where the fucking restrooms are. I laugh over at one of the other lesser detectives that has been watching me all these hours: "If only this were Detroit 1-8-7, huh?" I laugh at him.

He laughs back at me. "You wouldn't last one second in Detroit."

Charles returns and I pick up my coat. "It's time to go...officer," I tell him.

"There's no way you can go out of this," he replied. He seemed as though he was suffering from a type of vertigo...or vertebra. Whatever it was, it wasn't strong. I took my coat and walked down, out of the police precinct.

Charles followed me all the way down and out, and into the streets. It was pouring. So I led him to a coffee place that was unique and special to only my special taste. "You wait here, Mills," I told him, and I'll be out again with your *coffee* that is made for *your* taste.

riding through the slum

So this is just me trying to be funny while listening to 'Riders in the Storm' by the Doors, and sort of just being a little funny with all of it. Sorry to anybody who is Hardcore into Doors (though most of you will die sooner than me), but it was just being funny.

And me just trying to see how well I can do the 'rhyming'. Let me know when I failed.

Thank you.

I also advise you to listen to the song while reading the lyrics, in order to be able to criticize in a complete manner. Thank you again.

Riding through the slum x 2

Into this house we're grown
in two, our second loans,

like a pendulum that's swung
by Edgar Allen Poe,

yeah, still riders in a slum x 1

There's a killer on the loam.
His brain is squealing about a Toad.
Take a long holiday...
Forget your past girlfriend...
If she gives your lamb a ride,
you'll be accused of homicide as
The Killer on The Road...(yeah)

Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Take him by your sniper stand,

Headshot was your second guess,
all life will never end.

He's gotta understand ;)

Sunday, September 1, 2013

not nine

I return to the office sharply at nine o'clock, and am greeted by the comforting sight of all of the officers working away at their designated desks, solving crimes. Charles is not there, he's not here, yet. I put an orange I had been saving upon Charles' table, and type a note on his Notepad: "I'm sorry I called you petty. I know we're supposed to be partners."

I then open the diary file we'd been working on, and type a little further: "This morning, a sack of flour was dumped in front of my door. You can't imagine how unexpected this kind of hit is to a person's psyche. You wake up, expecting to find some interesting and possibly new stuff to look into, but all you're doing is looking at flour powdered all over your doorstep. With a finger-scrawled note saying 'BAKE HER'. And it wasn't even a sack. It was a box. A box of flour that littered my doorstep at an alarmingly discomforting angle."

That's about all I have in my heart to write into the diary for now, and so I go to my own desk to check my email. Mother, this morning, is surprisingly silent. I feel I may have hurt her feelings, so I write a short note to apologize in case I had done so, and I only realize upon sending the email that I'm apologizing for sending her some email.

I have to go to a seminar at 9:30 about coping with loss. I'm not against it. Some of the personalities there are very encouraging and colorful. Unlike me. I have no color.

I open my box of crayons and begin to illustrate 'The World', as it relates to me. Everything begins to take shape. Her narrative switches to the past, and now she begins to have some proper shading.

Saturday, August 31, 2013


We land at the murdered person's house and find that she is killed in a ritualistic manner. This person...this 'politician' who stood outside with several chicken industry protestors had had her neck broken, and then, very deli...deliberately, they drew a nice fat 7 across her breasts. That's what these clowns do, because they know I'm back.

"It's the same thing over and over again, Frank! Let's just go back to the office."

Spiderman's fucking boss is obviously mine, at the office, and he is yelling at me. "I can't hire you if you're instigating the murders," he yells. "I mean, are you seeing a fucking pattern here?" he yells again.

"Se7en", I reply. "That's a pattern."

"They're making fun of you kid. You're no detective."

I turn back and look at my email. My mother is sending encouraging messages. "Keep a positive heart, and you'll be right as rain," she writes, and I wish I could tell her how much I miss her (my wife, not my mom).

I write carefully back. "I'm a detective, again now, mom. I can't think about her. Please don't send so many emails."

Petty officer Charles is now assigned to me. I ask him if he knows how I can improve my typing. "You have any typing games, Charles?"

We write a small diary together, imagining the psyche of the people who'd like to taunt me.


Near home, there is an old woman who is usually pretty cool to talk with. She...she *lives* in a box. When we first met, I told her how fucking offensive that is to me, and she just did a finger thing like saying "not important". I speak to this older woman in the box about what happened to my wife, and she just listens to me.

"You really have a hang-up," she said one day.


"Welcome back to homicide, detective."

There were new things in the police these days. Computers. People who use computers, and people who feel like they're good at it. They showed me how to receive email, and I saw how my mom had sent way too many...It was my fault. I should have been there for her, and I should have been there when...when she was feeling those troubles and messaging me.

I walk around new york city, trying to get my pants blowed up in the subway winds. Any...shaking, unstable tremor...hah! It gets me right back to her. And I have slowly learned to appreciate how the ground shakes beneath my feet. When the ground shakes beneath my feet, that is her, her smile, and she lives.

And I live. New York City in 2013. Didn't we leave for the same reason? Let's walk into a public library.

For Somerset, that was pretty much it.I requested his presence several times in the clinic, but they said that he was done, and not going to come anymore. I can see his point of view.

Heh, I mean, after all, wasn't that always his point of view? Seeing the other person's point of view?

I still can't eat anything that comes in a box. I can't fucking open my fucking furniture. A clever fuck in the clinic told me I am quadratically challenged. I'd tell these guys who monitor me, and maybe induce them to play something melodic as I find books, but I know I'm no Somerset. I *KNOW* that.

My cellphone rings in the middle of Chaucer's Tales. I look up apologetically and try to find the precinct's bulletin FUCKING board! Then, oh, 'just check your email'.

Finally find the email and can shut it down. Famous politician killed, theatrically. Heh. I get into to the car and tell the petty officer, Frank, to drive to the murder scene.

"Step on it son," I tell Frank. "Gotta go, Serpico."

Monday, August 26, 2013

Real Cheating Behaviour

Being able to cheat off you in class,
your hair was hot, but those equations

economics, thruster engineering.

"There is no way I'm passing this test," you tell me.
"I'm just too...dumb."
This causes panic, I mean, if she's dumb, then...

A teacher walks by and tells us he used to eat fruit, back in the day.
This teacher was able to concoct berry wines (yes berry wines),
and knew where the long sips were.

"Cheater," she whispers under the teacher's breath. "Fiend!"

The copying is slow, but steady.

Later that night she returns to a room. With her boyfriend that programs cryptography over ICQ.

We revise our earlier lesson on economics.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

They Expect One of Us in the Wreckage

This is a poem about Area 51.

And how classy the authorities can't be.
It is also a poem about how you can do blood transfusions
in the middle of a plane crash.

After all, forensics will just check your blood,
and then be done with your full and swelled corpse.
Then you can die.

Forget Star man.
And the sister he had on his shoulder.
There will be no E.T.

(no estimated time of arrival)

Plan carefully your next mov(i)e, Alien.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

You're not being cheated. There is always a Start and an End.

I find that very telling. Of the shirts you wear.
And your pants.
The socks, the little bootsies.
The tiny gloves we can put around your fingies,
to keep them warm and safe.

Luckily our chest is a magnet.
I know you thought you were flying away
into oblivion, but no,
you were being drawn back to the safe zone.

Sometimes you may feel angry at me.
And you can punch. And kick.
Even say some bad and terrible words.
Maybe you say something like, "The Days Are Getting Too Slow"

Everyone looks at you, so you add that, "And There Is No More Water."

You come back, and we give you a gentle applause.
You curtsy, for some reason.
A friend leans in to a hair upon your ear
"That was epic."

They are watching you do your moves. How you react.
So much dynamism in the universe, so many possibilities.
You rise, "This story can take many shapes and forms.
It can go on forever," you say.

No, there will be an end.
Not a romantic or a legendary end.
Not even that much of a horroshow end.
Horroshow. Like Burgess.

But it will be a very satisfying end.
A stratospheric end, some may say, but then
they only dive in the murkiest puddles ending,
not truly with the description.

Later, after a few years, the society asks, drunkenly:
"It's never going to end, is it?
All this.
Just gonna go on."

You touch society's hand, and begin to hold it.
"Is it so bad?"
"Well,'s never going to end, right?"
"It's going to end."

"I grew up a type of aparrow."
Well this is a new direction.
"I keep flying. I fly."
A landing and take-off pad is created.

"Check it out, I'm flying in," she says happily.
We roll out the red carpet, and she glides in, majestic.
She wears green shoes, to contrast with her subject.
And with buoyancy.

"Let's do this forever," she says.
"What, the green shoes?"
Destruction, scratches on the face.
"I mean, yeah."

"The coolest, emerald entrance."
There is a second trick to the red carpet,
an undulating hemming way.

I tell her that she could land her foot here,
upon these woven threads,
or even there, upon those other threads, also woven.
"You're a snake, you devil," she tickles my cheek.

I want to say "Hardly".
But sometimes you don't.

"Really long piece tonight," she says.
The effect is ruined. She walks off to her dressing room.

A knave slips by. Says it's okay to spin a good yarn.
"You can keep going with a yarn," says the knave.
A knife slips by the knave, and he goes along
his merry way.

"You're not that dark," she says, returned.
"I thought you would never email me again," I say.
"I am returned." Green steps hoard my senses,
and I am lulled by a type of mint or herb,
a poison, which takes me into her world.

This is the most laughable fucking world, and we leave.

"Wait, I want to show you!" she says, and we are scooped back.
"You will sit still, and you will listen to instructions."
"No, that is not me," I try, but there is already a booklet.

The Booklet:
* Use 'C' to release counter-measures
* Press the 'R' button to fire a rocket
* Hitting 'X' will let you fly by wire--
--I hit 'X'--
* By pressing, 'B', you can release a bomb
* CTRL-SHIFT-U will activate the 'Realism' mode
* While 'Realism' mode you can make one binary decision.
* If you are having trouble in *Realism*, you can press F10, and I'll let you in on some secrets.

I find that rather sexy, so I press F10

She says you can only press F10 while you are in Realism mode.
This has gone really astray, I mumble to myself. I feel like this has to be the end.

"I'm leaving you" she says.


"I'm going to help you bring your 'end' together, I've decided."


"Tuscanny," she says.

I snort cola."Okay, okay, what have I missed, really?"

She is livid, and I'm trying to be reasonable with her.

"It's not that Tuscanny is a bad place to dream of," I say. "It's just, so mundane." I remove a piece of chewing gum from her leg. "Why not just fly off to Jupiter?" I mumble.

"So you think Jupiter is boring," she snaps.

"No, I don't think Jupiter is--fuck! You are messing with my head!"

"I can be very clinical, you know," she says. "Two more nasty things and I'm gone, forever."
I ask her if she has watched The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
I tell her I have no guilt.

Sometimes bad things happen to people who could care less. When those things happen, watch carefully, because there is a type of dust that comes out of their beings. It may be a glowy type of dust or a darker, more pungent emanation, but you can see that in their eyes they are actually somewhere else.

My job will be to write stories, and make sure that every single one has an end.

I don't want people to ever feel cheated, like they got into this story, and al of a sudden, wahey, some fucking weird elongation of it. There is always going to be a start, and then an end.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Souply the Brakes

Turn of next century,
off-tarmac faces blur to curves
that meld with the distant lake
radio crackles "Supply the brakes".

Pause for thought
to 'supply' or 'apply'?
Flying through apple tree sinking
in juice of the loch.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

opportune ghost moments

While waiting for the people who should wake up
and go to their job

in the city that never sleeps(!), or slips(!)

or sips,
a part of your fingers, the little part
just goes to hell.

Let's not panic now, other 9 fingers still
going to heaven...

You begin to learn how annoying it is to have to locate tildes,
and shifting becomes a type of problem.

forget ever writing a song to the strum of baby E.

A ghost appears in your little finger and types twelve letters
where normally you might have written a sentence or paragraph.

It is a good opportunity to fuck with its soul,
the soul of that bastard finger,

the prodigal son. (finger)

pears, apples. nectarines

Those golden bananas (no way those things are real).

I pick up a plum and then let it go because it doesn't have any information or story of where it came from inscribed upon it.

"Or so you think," she giggles at me and I immediately turn (tank-style) to face her. "You just don't know about biogenetics." She sticks her tongue out.

"I know about it," I tell her angrily, which makes her laugh again. Apparently this laugh at angry man thing is a survival mechanic for the sort of women who wear clothes they found at the bottom of a box of cereal.

"It's not a discipline," she says, it's just a code of things you get to know by experiencing viscerally. By touching. And tasting."

I throw a plum at her foot and the harlequin flutters off to the bread stand.

This is a power I realize...throwing things. I pick up a plum and throw it at a man who is trying to hoard the smoked salmon...

What else might I spend 1 h 24 m doing?

What the people who flaunt sleep at me are unaware of
is that I just woke up from a 100 year doze.

That's right, what had been going on was all those
crazy European internal wars, and I had placed a bet

that Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir of Austro-Hungaria
would get himself murdered and trigger a type war
of the *whole* world (not really the *whole* world).

At least, that was my bet. That is my projection from reading the news that we get in India these days.

Every day, in some hidden alcove,
I tend to watch as a positioned sahib or a nawab receives 'the news',
which is typed carefully by typewriter from Morse code and Mayan glyphs
transmitted over the telegraph.

It tells of all the things going on in the World out there.
Which royals are doing what,
the sluggish progress of post-industrialization aftermath.
The disappointment that the 'New World' is for all of us.

And I get so depressed and bored and fall into a deep, arithmetic sleep sung by math of silvery flutes


Wait. It's not arithmetic sleep. It's from arrhythmiatic sleep,

induced sweetly by venom of one of the local snakes
that enjoys simply slipping into bed with us
whenever or wherever it's cool.

I wake up and it's 2013 and in New York (100 years later),
looking out of an apartment with huge windows over the skyline.
You can tell it's 2013 because they make a pattern in the clouds for you:
"2013 NEW YORK", and I believe everything that I read.

I'm wearing courtesan clothes from 1913 Bombay. and wonder if it's okay to go outside wearing these.

* Author's note: It should be plainly obvious that it probably took less than 15 minutes to spend the time boasted in the title.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Crunchiness and all value of sour cream crisp is destroyed by Monster Munch crisp

Once upon a time, I told a story.
A story about a woman who had to revert
due to the bear that she met.

In my Monster Munch pickled onion crispy time
many of my bodily heating systems fail
and I devolve into a reptile.

A reptile.
The crunchiness is overwhelming
the onion pickle flavor is too fainting
and makes me faint.

Splats of paint upon the statue of a remarkable man.

If they had a bag of Monster Munch, they would have been totally ...

Saturday, July 20, 2013

The Renewal

....init (those dots signify 'things' that occur)
... Sun unavailable due to planetary rotation. Synthesizing global illumination in cheapest possible fashion
... Dehydration detected. Adding water (Source: tap)
.. Traversal of boundaries detects prior experience
.. Loading experience
.. Unloading
.. New parameters
. Everything looking good. Raise the body