"Description": "An often neglected field. People feel there is no need for description when the content speaks for itself."
"Stamp": Usually US. Dunno.
"Content": "blah blah blah. howothchoo! skootle."
"InitialTransport": "Internet"
The program reviewed the envelope.
"Are you sure that is a stamp?" it said, checking closer.
"It's a fucking stamp. Pretty sure I didn't skimp on 89 cents, or whatever it is you people charge these days."
"You know you can buy in bulk," it said. "Don't have to go to the deli every time."
This was a pretty catastrophic situation. It was true that it was possible to get stamps in bulk, eliminating the need to walk on out of the apartment unit and go all the way to the deli and get a stamp.
"It's the only time I ever leave," he said, carefully, so as not to hurt the feelings of the bulkers. "One time a month, I allow myself an opportunity to go outside of my unit, see the world."
There was a tone of care and the notion of a lot of thought being put in: "No. I don't think you should," it said.
"Don't you think I should at least experience reality once a month?"
A very worried voice entered the fray. "No, I don't think so. I think you should get in bulk. Just automate."
"My hair is getting long," he told the machine. "Going to have to go outside and get a crew cut soon."
"Yeah, that's okay," it replied. "But you come back as soon as it's all done."
Friday, April 18, 2014
Monday, April 7, 2014
the (un) limited options
"Very upset here," came the missive, and it was carried by avian messengers following the full specs discussed in an online RFC.
He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.
His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)
In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.
"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.
"Acknowledged," said Research 35.
"Recorded. So...my real question, what I meant to say, wa--"
"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."
.
There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.
Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."
Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.
Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.
"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."
He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.
And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.
"Oh have you now?" she returned.
"Look. It's not about what's inside."
"So it's about what's outside?"
There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."
Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"
The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.
"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.
He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."
"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"
"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."
He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.
His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)
In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.
"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.
"Acknowledged," said Research 35.
"Recorded. So...my real question, what I meant to say, wa--"
"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."
.
There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.
Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."
Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.
Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.
"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."
He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.
And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.
"Oh have you now?" she returned.
"Look. It's not about what's inside."
"So it's about what's outside?"
There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."
Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"
The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.
"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.
He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."
"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"
"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Tombstone Suggestion
there. in the deep of sea, i encountered all that is dark in me.
---
Another rolling wave that ushers every detailed ulcer,
some poison who toiled with me in hope I would be gentle.
Let us switch now, from the first to our famous third person:
"I'm happy," said a human being in the environment. "I'm happy to be
out and about. Feeling the breeze, the salts in air, how wonderful!"
Small whirlwind appears next to this cheerful person's foot, a grin of wind.
We're still in the third person, and that grin is accumulating mischief.
Mischief, mind, not malice. Type of thing who would rather tap on your head
and allow pigeons to crash into it, than totally bash it in.
"What if you just dove off?" suggested this little, naughty wind, causing a pause.
They were at a cliff, upon which an enterprising man had seen fit to supply coconuts
chopped clean from their tops and prodded with huge plastic straws out of proportion.
"I'm getting coconuts," she said, absent of mind and further infuriating the evil wind.
Her body began to float toward the businessman. Twas all a daemon could do to keep up.
"You are getting coconuts?" said the wind. "This is a poem about death and suicide, you're getting bloody coconuts?"
The human stopped and smiled at the wind. Then, why just smile, but also let out a beautiful laugh?
Tried to gather the wind and hug it close to her, but could not, since it was, well, wind.
"You were going to make some kind of proposition?" she said, pushing cash from her wallet
and pulling the coconut in. The wind watched this activity with great distaste.
"Suddenly you're a woman, now. We started with you being androgynous."
"And then your puny mind projected all your thoughts and beliefs about a girl you once met
upon that flavorless template. See how your little mind works? Now come on," she said approaching the edge.
"That man had only one coconut. Who sets up a whole business like that, to sell one coconut at the cliff?"
From there, in their depths, you could see the waves crashing in earnest. "Come now. You said you had something to say."
It was getting really hot, the wind. Seeing those crashey waves was doing something to it,
changing it, making it whistle in strange and uncertain ways. "I did," said the wind, "I did,"
the girth from its eye of hope was narrowing, and the cyclone was fermenting illustriously its smile.
Then just quietness. No sounds. Nothing, really. The wind had to text her in order to keep the conversation going.
"I was going to tell you to just jump off" it texted.
She furiously typed back on the phone: "WTF???!!!?? WTF wtf WTF???!!!"
He furiously typed back, reborn and with a greater sense of clarity: "Listen!
I was going to ask you to jump off, indeed. But only so that I could actuate,
only that in your darkest slice of time, I'd rally and be there for you, lifting you gently to the shore."
They both laughed horrendously. It was terrible, their sound.
"You are a stupid and vain little man," she said.
"I know," said the wind. "All mischief and no malice."
---
Another rolling wave that ushers every detailed ulcer,
some poison who toiled with me in hope I would be gentle.
Let us switch now, from the first to our famous third person:
"I'm happy," said a human being in the environment. "I'm happy to be
out and about. Feeling the breeze, the salts in air, how wonderful!"
Small whirlwind appears next to this cheerful person's foot, a grin of wind.
We're still in the third person, and that grin is accumulating mischief.
Mischief, mind, not malice. Type of thing who would rather tap on your head
and allow pigeons to crash into it, than totally bash it in.
"What if you just dove off?" suggested this little, naughty wind, causing a pause.
They were at a cliff, upon which an enterprising man had seen fit to supply coconuts
chopped clean from their tops and prodded with huge plastic straws out of proportion.
"I'm getting coconuts," she said, absent of mind and further infuriating the evil wind.
Her body began to float toward the businessman. Twas all a daemon could do to keep up.
"You are getting coconuts?" said the wind. "This is a poem about death and suicide, you're getting bloody coconuts?"
The human stopped and smiled at the wind. Then, why just smile, but also let out a beautiful laugh?
Tried to gather the wind and hug it close to her, but could not, since it was, well, wind.
"You were going to make some kind of proposition?" she said, pushing cash from her wallet
and pulling the coconut in. The wind watched this activity with great distaste.
"Suddenly you're a woman, now. We started with you being androgynous."
"And then your puny mind projected all your thoughts and beliefs about a girl you once met
upon that flavorless template. See how your little mind works? Now come on," she said approaching the edge.
"That man had only one coconut. Who sets up a whole business like that, to sell one coconut at the cliff?"
From there, in their depths, you could see the waves crashing in earnest. "Come now. You said you had something to say."
It was getting really hot, the wind. Seeing those crashey waves was doing something to it,
changing it, making it whistle in strange and uncertain ways. "I did," said the wind, "I did,"
the girth from its eye of hope was narrowing, and the cyclone was fermenting illustriously its smile.
Then just quietness. No sounds. Nothing, really. The wind had to text her in order to keep the conversation going.
"I was going to tell you to just jump off" it texted.
She furiously typed back on the phone: "WTF???!!!?? WTF wtf WTF???!!!"
He furiously typed back, reborn and with a greater sense of clarity: "Listen!
I was going to ask you to jump off, indeed. But only so that I could actuate,
only that in your darkest slice of time, I'd rally and be there for you, lifting you gently to the shore."
They both laughed horrendously. It was terrible, their sound.
"You are a stupid and vain little man," she said.
"I know," said the wind. "All mischief and no malice."
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Mind, body, soul. And gravy.
I once fell in love with someone.
Fell very deep. Type of thing was
between us, an energy of joined state.
I'm not talking physically
(don't get me wrong, there was physical stuff)
I'm talking about soul, about awareness.
About two entities melting into one.
It wasn't a pedestrian love.
You know, like some couples, sure,
maybe they might know each other so well
that they can even complete each others' sentences.
The one person knows exactly what the other is thinking.
But this was greater than that.
We were creating our own vocabularies,
our own languages! A deep regret is never having composed a dictionary!
Therein lies the rub. Maybe if there had been a dictionary
for this level of entanglement, we could have both read slowly together.
Known about any mistakes (all of them were by me) and pulled out a clean eraser
and rub them off. Together. My hand in her hand.
And if that had been the case, maybe we could finally smile at each other again.
But the truth is that I lost her. I mean, like, literally.
I don't know where she is, who she is or what she does anymore.
I fell into this deep psychosis where I'd start establishing a repertoire
and be famous at restaurants for ordering two plates.
The first I would eat normally.
And then the second...fuck. This is extremely difficult to write.
The second plate, I would eat also, but pretending to be her.
But where was she, really? What had I done so terrible
That she might disappear from the entire world?
Okay. Okay. Gonna stop here. Think I've shared too much.
Have a nice Sunday.
Fell very deep. Type of thing was
between us, an energy of joined state.
I'm not talking physically
(don't get me wrong, there was physical stuff)
I'm talking about soul, about awareness.
About two entities melting into one.
It wasn't a pedestrian love.
You know, like some couples, sure,
maybe they might know each other so well
that they can even complete each others' sentences.
The one person knows exactly what the other is thinking.
But this was greater than that.
We were creating our own vocabularies,
our own languages! A deep regret is never having composed a dictionary!
Therein lies the rub. Maybe if there had been a dictionary
for this level of entanglement, we could have both read slowly together.
Known about any mistakes (all of them were by me) and pulled out a clean eraser
and rub them off. Together. My hand in her hand.
And if that had been the case, maybe we could finally smile at each other again.
But the truth is that I lost her. I mean, like, literally.
I don't know where she is, who she is or what she does anymore.
I fell into this deep psychosis where I'd start establishing a repertoire
and be famous at restaurants for ordering two plates.
The first I would eat normally.
And then the second...fuck. This is extremely difficult to write.
The second plate, I would eat also, but pretending to be her.
But where was she, really? What had I done so terrible
That she might disappear from the entire world?
Okay. Okay. Gonna stop here. Think I've shared too much.
Have a nice Sunday.
Friday, February 7, 2014
title to be disclosed at end of poem
The very best weavers were ushered, nay,
fed fried mars bars, crème brûlées, and wealthy toffee,
into the moot of all mooters. Pedestrians held sidewalk coupons of promise.
There was a history to the dungeon of missives locked and piquantly chained below,
some held by mysteries merely in sponge, or hay, too, bundled well.
And yes, nobody challenged the rubber bands.
This was not to be a hastily concocted deceit.
Furriers, across the globe, had been covertly juggled for wizened woolliers
of cotton candy, clearly an operation by military snipers of elderly persuasion with steady gaze.
All this, of course just His sweetening, or apéritif, for when His finale entrance from the glorious gates
finally did transpire--all those sugary seams loosened. Chocolate shells blistered,
oozing that caramel promised to for everyone to eat.
All His Candy Clothes Fell Apart And Around The City Streets Did He Dance To The Beat. <-- at="" be="" end="" i="" it="" of="" oh...sheeit="" poem="" span="" thought="" title="" to="" unclothed="">
Smarter than he thought or just lucky bastard?
fed fried mars bars, crème brûlées, and wealthy toffee,
into the moot of all mooters. Pedestrians held sidewalk coupons of promise.
There was a history to the dungeon of missives locked and piquantly chained below,
some held by mysteries merely in sponge, or hay, too, bundled well.
And yes, nobody challenged the rubber bands.
This was not to be a hastily concocted deceit.
Furriers, across the globe, had been covertly juggled for wizened woolliers
of cotton candy, clearly an operation by military snipers of elderly persuasion with steady gaze.
All this, of course just His sweetening, or apéritif, for when His finale entrance from the glorious gates
finally did transpire--all those sugary seams loosened. Chocolate shells blistered,
oozing that caramel promised to for everyone to eat.
All His Candy Clothes Fell Apart And Around The City Streets Did He Dance To The Beat. <-- at="" be="" end="" i="" it="" of="" oh...sheeit="" poem="" span="" thought="" title="" to="" unclothed="">
Smarter than he thought or just lucky bastard?
Sunday, January 26, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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