proximity mines (are cheered for when disengaged)

i had entered a few rowboats in my day
gangles and blisters on hands and foot down rivers
failing and flailing to impress
the smell of citrus juniper illicit
and broken harried hurried fishing rods
in poles, both traversed and transvestite
my fangs and function fought to persevere
grouping nets and tackle by the icebox
frosted hearts soaked in hop-lust and carbonation
my engendered fears are no longer engraved
(those tattoos were removed long ago)
joy-filled, you might say, it all was
felled feelings falling fearlessly
my mouth uncensored and my thoughts persuasive
i am nothing without all of your belabored nakedness
(with it's nudity defining something else)
and with these moods, post-parental and effervescent
we're attempting to bring fragrance to each day
some say, "they are godless and insolvent!"
we appear to them posing pressures inescapable
inculpable in greased elbows gone against the grain
but in the end we end up euphoric
creating, for them, lifeless stills
and they all end the same
(in secret, they are perverse and blissful moments,
swilling syrupy in a phantom mind)
rabbits, when jargon of the lion-tamed,
are easily caught and bred
but we've escaped again
into feline hills of this hinterland
covered in lime green grass and pheromones
please, please (please)
have all this planned, penned and apportioned
please no longer leave our futures left unmanned

apply the need

their voice a whispering water of a wakeboard drawl
fake and flippant stuffed with feasts of straw
their fingers like porcupine impregnant on sensory voyeur
tattoos of english markings in a french volition
their hair were tribes of angry inchworms
eating slabs of salty fiefdoms
peasants, only doppelgangers, chagrin, charging malls
seeming valiant in their tiny two door escorts

their travel split by timely holidays
heroic adventures in plowing coupes
cutting down the snowdrift oxen
driving forty three below
magic is the ammunition
for this here wooden catapult

in summery disease their wandering wills are tested
red dress is redressed and flames are danced instead
cordials plastered over walls
liquored vapor wafting over stalls
magic is the superstition
for this here flagrant supposition

their dream are aloft with clouds
their skin are abead with sweat
their youth are alive with what is left

she was handing out bumper stickers that said "pare sufrir"

"I can't smell my own breath so I must not exist.
I walk down the street and notice the gay bars noticing me.
I'll turn my head when men walk by but I'm not afraid to look at female cops.
I'm always unimpressed although I want to fetishize them so much.
I might go home and see her walking, shackled, along, compressing herself into what I no longer remember.
Then, I'm gravity, and I pull.
I try Voodoo.
I burn candles and houses and forests and I wake up in an ocean covered in salt.
My mouths are seaweed and then she shows up, decorated with sharks' teeth, floating in bed.
She knows she's a virgin but I know her father too well.
He feeds on stars and the birth of my sons.
He's there in my future with glass dogs and rum.
But my sons, they'll be timid yet wolf-like, cherished and feared.
Soot on their faces, diamonds inside.
As a curse, they'll be tone-deaf and surrogates to my illness, soulless and dry. Their father, she will bear limbs that fall off, poisoned by my acetone breath, lurid and warm."

plum & walnut

chocolate and reminscence, hour long sunsets and travel in pairs
a shoehorn from germany, a zippo from munich, bmw logo
the smell of candied yams sleeping under tinfoil sheets on the stove
nine-sectioned windows, rattling against the roaring sunrise
an old painterly chair, a loose wooden log wobbling
coffee in plain white porcelain mugs that seem to glow in sunlight

soft, prepared footsteps, landing out of sync, unpredictable
legs and white socks, long and elastic

the grit between teeth, the taste of fake sugar and toothpaste
crepes in the morning, seafood last night
bright green running shoes, phantom sounds of shoelaces
a bruise i don't remember
an hour to wake up
a jog to the lake

"and the conversation we had... yes, it was good... no, i'm not unhappy"

the future is in assembly, on the line headed forward, lauded are we, the everyones involved. somehow the clues are overwhelming or maybe it's overwhelming that there even have to be clues, milestones maybe, into territory so often charted that the pen's breaking through the parchment, ink marks on our pupil's desks, coffee blanched with too much cream.

degrees are shifting slowly forward, upward with the time we set, watches breaking sweat, learning biology from wrists attached. the body builds immunities, but it also builds impatience, minutes breaking like bacteria just as the weight of hours rolls down the tresses one by two by one.

across our bridges are our avenues and in our avenues are runners feeling the cooling pace pushing back against their silk-wrapped feet. their gravel makes mistakes, it hurts them, turns their ankles, throws water when encountered, potholed and deposited. but they keep moving forward, attainable is their diamond-studded, saffron-plated gold, heavy and entrenched with their promises as obvious as Koran.

i think once future opens up it's pores, soaks us in like chemicals, we will seal the past behind us, waiting for a lazy day to look out at our double-mirror, pitted against great eyesight and greater vanity.

corroboration, robbed

grown up in pink velour (on the knife-sharp inside)
fellow followed in Atlantic footsteps.
crushed red peppers and Perrier
singeing and bristly on the tongue.
pen marks on the collar,
blue-clear, the sweaty rivulets.
counting constant inconsistent hours,
fledgling iron in a cut of blood.
stuffing future paper trails,
completing the third of maybe five.
slumped and quarterly,
the points pointed everyhow and everyway.

Rigel is racing to melt with the Sun.

There are relatively empty pockets of cool air, inside dark green forests with ancient moss, lit indirectly by reflection from glowing ground cover, fueled by a hidden sun above. There is wind, gathered around the tree trunks, it's howling muffled by the motionless advance of time. There will be something happening, and there won't be anyone to see it. There might be something sinister, there might be something undeserved.

And if it catches up to you and takes you by the knees, there will be the sound of broken teeth scattering softly on the leaves and forest floor, the rocks absorbing the young calcium. Blood will prove to be supernumerary evidence punctuating the dizziness inside your head. The day will fade and become gritty, your spit will dry and your fingers will bend backward joint by joint. You will remember all of it, as it takes years to end. And, when it finally happens, you'll see nothing more and the cold will settle and the sand will fill your open mouth.

Every drink you take will taste like silver and every sound you hear will resonate in place of dreams. Every day you think ahead will set you back forever and every night you sleep on the same pillowcase, your hair will grow thick between the threads.

I.

It is in soft, vulnerable waking, sweat on thinning pillowcase. Waking weaved in dreams of burden and exaggeration, in threadbare thoughts both haven and hypocrisy. On the nightstand, molten in the sunlight, ice water in tumbler, restless and awake. I borrow hazy focus at the water’s edge to coalesce thoughts multi-faceted and kaleidoscope into the singular white light of last night’s floating kitchen window, hanging, moonlit from inside. It is a pure detail, un-obscured by trees, cautiously untouched by branches.

Beside me, a sharp and startling hiss—like hi-hat, or maybe the loosing of a heart valve—the familiar staccato waltz of all lighters lighting cigarettes: one failed attempt, one more and then the flame. Up the steps of disguised concrete—clever work of tenement—to the door propped open with a ruined phonebook. It creaks when pushed aside, as heavy as it seems. Above, an uninviting halo of fluorescent light flickers, unsure of my arrival. There’s the token graveyard of paper ruins to wade through, solicitations, menus and letters lost in limbo, addressed to tenants who have long since left, their alien names and lacking presence noted and discouraging.

A fourth floor walk-up in a narrow staircase and I need time to catch my breath. A moment taken to let my thoughts reach me. Inside all around are words popping in and out of a dozen different stories, creating their own bizarre, erratic destiny. There were endings to beginngs started last time some where here. One from Blake, back from Los Angeles, constantly reiterating how strange her life was “You know, spread out like that". Her search for something new was purely lateral, wishing that it were meaningful instead. Her legs were not enough, neither for the city nor the people in it. Another from Sean, with a new job, wearing every tie he owns as a mocking symbol of having crossed one of those important thresholds. It was a preemptive attempt to make fun of his own adulthood before any one could pull him into drunken conversations. Conversations about lost innocence, lost time, or how he should “Think of all the parties” that could be missed. “I’m at a party now” he’d say, with retribution.

On the couch is sat Great Gary, six foot seven, thrown out of a second floor window into rose bushes just last year. His only added detail to what happened: “Don’t fuck with people you don’t know in Queens”. As usual, drunk despite his size, he is there watching TV, his eyes a pair of golden fireworks set off with every change in frame. Next to him are Claire and Bonnie, twins who match their drinks to their outfits and their outfits to their mood. Tonight is a dark, muddy beer flecked with silver sequins; it is a golden-yellow calf leather bag of a night.

Bonnie makes sure to watch me as I walk by, clearing her long brown hair from her face before uncrossing her arms and picking up her drink. She looks at me and her eyes, sharp and unblinking, tell me that she has something to say. She watches me give Gary a distracting pat on the back, with him smiling his great gracious smile, lifting his beer in brotherly response; “Welcome back, dear friend.” I walk towards the window to feel the cold air flowing in, knowing it is actually the warm air that is flowing out.

I remember the last time I saw Bonnie. It was one of those rare occasions when one sees her without Claire. I had to count the seven months on seven fingers, rewinding memory into summer of last year. We had gone to a concert in New Haven on a humid Friday night. A friend of hers from home, Daniel, was at Yale for grad school and was in a band with his younger sister, Olivia. He played piano and she played drums. In the club there was no air conditioning and everyone with neon bracelets was at the bar, talking over the music. We stood in front, motionless, staring at them as they played.

A single bright spotlight moved around the stage in a short fluid loop. It splashed across the piano in pinpoint reflections, racing along its ebony edges, sparkling. Briefly, Daniel’s face and hands lit up in a bright flare of magnesium. The light flowed on its way to the porcelain drum set, exposing his sister and her pale arms playing softly as if not at all. Then, before finally throwing our two long shadows on the short stage, it washed across her face and she closed her eyes. They both sang and they were very thin and it was hypnotic.

Bonnie and I wandered around in silence for a while, eventually following minor crowds down High Street. I jumped on top of low stone walls, balancing myself and jumping off with a great show of effort. She played along and was convincingly impressed. We turned right at a shortcut towards York Street on our way back to the car. We paused under a roof of interlocking branches racing down a colonnade of trees then surveyed and sat down on a worn stone bench, facing each other. My lungs filled with chlorophyll and I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone to check the time. She flicked a fat, red ladybug off of her shoulder and it caught the sudden breeze, which stirred the leaves enough to let light from a streetlamp shimmer. It was above me, bright and emerald green. She told me about London, all the parties and the people, how she had never before nor since gone out so much, how she'd never been more hedonistic.

I tried to picture London. It was quiet, sullen. The ground was wet the way it is in all movies about Europe. Everything shining slick in neon black reflection. Bonnie sensed that I had the wrong image in my mind and told me I had to go there before I could understand. Embarrassed, I shifted thoughts into Texas, something I knew more about. I thought about finding its exact center and driving right into it, my car a fire-tipped arrow. I thought about screaming into Brady, Texas, setting it aflame and celebrating. I thought about going home with Bonnie.

We drove to her parents house and drank two bottles of wine at the kitchen table. She knocked over a glass of Medoc and let it sit on the floor. We sat on the porch in blankets and watched deer walk past us in the moonlight. I fell asleep quickly and woke up before sunrise. Bonnie went inside to take a shower and I stayed outside to walk around barefoot in the hazy twilight. I found the tracks the deer left behind and grazed my hand through the dewy grass around them. I heard some music coming through an upstairs window, turned around and looked up. It was Bonnie getting into the shower, lit up naked in the rising sun.

I sat and watched that hovering window, sucking in the heavy oxygen, hanging thick in the morning air. I listened to the gentle susurrus of the shower and the gentler music she had on. I stared at the sky and subtle clouds, making guesses at the silhouetted trees.

Sundials are not in fashion.

I don't wear a watch. Still, a part of me that hasn't grown up yet (one of many parts, I admit) wishes I did. For some reason I feel like it makes a person look either more refined or more masculine. I often wish I were more of both, to varying degrees. This problem is compounded by my thin wrists--too thin for the rest of my sugar-fed body and much too thin for a nice Tag Heuer Grand Carrera. Maybe I should do some push-ups and work on a few insecurities at once.

Not wearing a watch makes me prone to naive misconceptions and showcases the myriad limits to my knowledge of the watch-wearing lifestyle.

• How often should I check it?
• Will people ask me if I have the time more often than I feel willing to share such valuable ($5,700 US MSRP) information?
• How do I tap into the mystical forces that help choose the proper wrist to bear the weight of my new chronograph?

This last question posed, until today, the largest threat to my budding desire to be a considerably refined man capable of wielding the power of time.

Being the son of a hyper-actively garment-industry-influenced mother (working in lingerie, loving Gucci, sequins on her jeans, nice dresses, big smile) I've understood the placement of zippers and buttons on shirts and coats to be a folkloric way of identifying your gender; each button fastened another reaffirmation of being the gender you think you are. Naturally, I expected that wearing a watch was like wearing anything else as a male, it had to be on my right wrist--dominant, manly, undeniable.

Like many other times in my life, assuming the way things are based on my constant battle with gender roles (i.e. making new friends) proved to be a wrong turn made right by logic. Battling my Monday blues by extending my weekend (spent reading The Watchmen by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons, reading about tachyons, exploring with Keisha, watching movie trailers, cleaning mouse droppings) as much as possible, I came across a website serving as an annotation for the graphic novel. Right there. A quarter of the page down. Logic gently (a gentleness only the internet knows) slaps me in the face.

A note about Chapter 1, Panel 8:

"Panel 8: The sign man is apparently left-handed. Right-handed people generally wear their watches on the left wrist, so they can wind them with their right hand."

This answer is so obvious that it doesn't matter if it's not the only answer, it just makes so much cold, androgynous sense--function over fashion, Tag Heuer be damned.

Unfortunately, I don't have fifty-seven hundred dollars and I still have small wrists.

Cool your nerd jets.

In the labyrinthine mind of a Science Fiction fan, the future is always amazing. No matter how many times everyone dies to interstellar mind plague, a simultaneous robot invasion of our past, present AND future, or the surprisingly fragile world exploding (something having to do with our dependence on oil), we come back for more.

Generally both cautious and excited, I boast and flaunt my slick-as-1983 book covers with their fractals and acid gradients, painted over by liberal interpretations of the story's antagonist or complementary-to-the-book-title images (read: spinny cool abstractness and/or futuristic and always phallic architecture). I take any chance I can on the subways, with my friends, or even on my desk at work to rant about how awesome whatever I am reading is. Favorite method of attack: slowly raising the book over a cubicle wall until the occupant and co-worker gives me the two or three minutes to babble about relativity and humankind eventually farming massive black holes for their ghostly energy output when Dyson sphere technology becomes so obviously passe.

As everything interesting in life begins, I was on Wikipedia. Looking at the list of recent Hugo award winners for best novel, I stumbled upon Spin by Robert Charles Wilson. I was transfixed, flirting with the possibility of being able to read about "cool nerd stuff" (this is the easiest way to explain what the book is about) and have it in paperback form instead of falling into the rabbit-hole link-fest of Wikipedia.

It's actually the first in a trilogy-in-progress (of which I have now read the first two installments, the second being Axis).

1. Spin - A story about three life-long friends whose lives are changed, along with everyone else's, when the Earth is cloaked by a selectively-permeable electromagnetic membrane created by machines dubbed "the Hypotheticals". This membrane disconnects the planet temporally from the Universe outside. "Time outside passes at a highly accelerated rate, 3.17 years per Earth second, or roughly 100 million years per Earth year." (Source: "Spin (novel)" Wikipedia). Already awesome enough to read, the novel surprised me by actually being a great character driven story, given that you assume the forces at work to be a character as well.

2. Axis - The continuation of human experience within a "post-Spin" reality. This follows a few new characters linked to one of the main characters from the first novel as they strive to live on a new world. This world is reached by sailing beneath a gigantic arch in the Indian Ocean, revealed at the end of Spin. Axis serves as a slightly post-apocalyptic depiction of humanity's adjustment to the unknown and desire to quantify it (in this case scientists breed a child capable of communicating with the Hypotheticals). Although a great adventure, it is not as brilliantly enjoyable as the first book but a welcome connection to what will hopefully be a sweet finale (Vortex), explaining the forces behind all of these events.

Note: When reading Spin on the subway be careful not to get so engrossed that you attempt to turn the page with one hand while holding onto a pole with the other, only to drop the book on a child's head.

I apologized but I think her father wanted to cut my face off.