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.