A Couple of Sets of Fears, One Immediate and the Other More Long-Term

An orange is trembling next to a subway grate,
a semi-sphere of an orange, from some careless boot's squishing.
A shard of its peel has come torn and unraveled to expose
how orangey-soft it is inside.

Reverberations on the street roll it around dangerously,
conjuring some immediate fears, some thoughts of bad outcomes.
Fear of falling into the grate, into the unknown undergound
transporation system below, where who knows what journey awaits?

Or not even getting that far. There is a high probability here
of complete a squish--a second boot, or even taxi tire on derring-do
leaving only one's rind and juice flowing all over, dispersed
like some cheap fizzy drink for the more ratty segments of society.

These are immediate fears, and we sourly discover the throat behind their tang.
Teleportation, or lack thereof. That instant transport has not been discovered.
Instead of being where it wants to be, the orange is where it is,
where it is, subsequently, is not a place for an orange.

.

"I assure you I'm not completely gone mad," says a long-termer.

"See, I just thought you were mumbling about orang--"

"No, I already found the way to teleport."

He'd been away for a few months and now had returned, and asked to be had a coffee with. There were signs. He had never worn scarves before, and now he was wearing one. He'd never worn fingerless gloves, but now wore a black leather pair.

"Looks more like you found a way to ride a motorcycle," smiled his friend.

He buried his face in his palm and sighed. "Look," came his muffled voice from his hands, "this isn't some bullshit prank. This isn't me making stories up. I found a way!" His face rose again from the confines of his clasp. "I found a way. To teleport."

But the way he was saying it--the look on his face--it was not as though this was a trolley of good news or joyous breakthrough. There was some real terror here.

Seeing the immense breakdown that danced behind his corporal visage, his friend pulled his chair close to him and put an arm around his shoulder. "Hey now, hang in there, hang in there. What's the problem? You found it, right?"

The long-termer began to break into quick, uneven breaths, his scarf flip-flopping and his ungloved fingers rattling upon the coffee house table. His friend held him fast, patting his back. "Alright, alright. Take it easy. Tell me what's the hassle?"

A few spasms here. He jerked left and right. A couple of tenuous shivers. And then, with some battle, regained himself. Taking a deep breath, he turned to his friend and, taking a moment to find the true being behind the eyes, he said, "I found out how to teleport. And I started it. And now I don't know how to stop i--"

And then he disappeared, his long-term fear barely exposed.

as voices slowly slip away

As what could have been plain as day
slowly slips into a lunatic eclipse
without given reasons or even predictions,
just carrying a feeling to stop all believings

one last coat of polish upon this blanket is drawn.

Draped'n tucked and snuck away to cellar,
babyhead woozies shushed with sugars
entering from a secret way under the cocoon,
body gradually inflating, the brain of balloons

journeyed to the other side of everyday sound.

Here, now, the runtime proves a lucid character,
who, finally released from her eloping sheath
orchestrates what is next by her artful taste.
Once-shaped histories to freely come forgotten,

ethereally lit, bosom-first into her articulations.

Close and Loving Turbo Love

Every now and then, a small bag likes to scamper.
Flips cross your feet in the loneliest pitter patter.
DOOM suddenly becomes chatter, crossed for nightly fleet

Declared rather than voiced by the lizard you'd rather meet.


. (lizard bullet style)



Coding up a few .wads now.
This must be everything I'm about.


.



"He went full turbo and collapsed into himself, saying that what he did was just full turbo love."

.


The screech of a car going out of control
in an environment where you need to be totally in control,
then the hands coming over your shoulders,

warm and hot coming

to secure you and your position, keep you safe and in calibration.

.

She unlocked the gears system and he immediately spun,
flew against a cliff and bounced into another cliff
(by this time 80 percent of his transport and 72% of his body had been destroyed)


and flew out into the river system, a few parts amiss.

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:

    YOU ARE THE WORST PILOT IN THE SKY!
    YOUR FAILURE IS LANDING TO YOUR SIGHTS.

    YOUR HEAD IS LIKE A PERSON NO ONE LIKES.


### 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.

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?"

"SSH!"

"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."

"Now?"

"STOP"

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.

coffeepoem

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.