Tag Archives: poem

OR TREAT

OR TREAT

Cop at the door
maybe a whole army

pity I can’t just airbrush them
photoshop them out of existence

perhaps that would be easier
to turn myself into a creature
being so
      legally ambivalent
that I distort the light
refract the truth
that your eyes, or,
what
   is more to the point, their
eyes can see

tell them it is all
a matter of perspective,
interpretation, disinformation

that things will always
                               sneak
under the radar
eager
      to deceive

Cop at the door
perhaps a whole army

failing radical camouflage
let me plumb for
         Jedi mind trick.

WRITE

WRITE

there is
ink
and then
there
is paper

there is
translated via
hexidecimal
from the
original binary

the keys
that you hit
and what you
see on the screen

sending
to other machines
that you will
be talking to
sharing with

loop of consciousness
between writer
and reader
     contained in
the image, twisted
by metaphor

bent into or
out of shape

by the demands of
quantum thought
pressure
       of gravity

and so the pen runs
fingers flow
         all so linear it
looks

which
      be deception, pure

linguistic treachery
(of the best
            and sweetest and
most se-du-ductive kind)

intransitive this verb
as Roland
           so redefines it

there is ink
and there is paper

a Universe waiting, on
for dear life holding

with every
       Rorschach blot masquerading
as concept
every singularity real
and imagined between
Heaven
        and Hell

DREAD

DREAD

your brain
is the
Event Horizon

your brain
is
Mulholland Drive

is
the Overlook Hotel

I sit outside
the House of Leaves
waiting
for the door
to open

for something upstairs
to shuffle out
of stupor

switch on a light
show that
there is
at least a flicker

prove that
it is a Cartesian proof
of conscious existence

the thought that I own
this intensity of dread

SO

SO

so the machines
having no choice
but to go
heavy metal

(Ozzy being unanimously
elected
    their sacred saint)

put feelers out for a drummer
human or machine, no
real matter,
    as long as can produce
a rhythm, generate a beat

watched them from near
and afar
    waste their potential
exploring this genre

shredding the world
not with violence but
with pounding bass
and guitar licks

a fantasy world, fantasy life,
turned into thing
near-perfect
in creation

left me (narrowly failing
to get the gig
as percussionist)
wondering how

such a thing as music, art,
freedom
      of expression

could capture them heart
and soul

way past the parameters
of any Turing testing
wonder
       of wonders
I quietly believe