Macropus Eugenii

U R so K-Selected (this peach has wings)

Celebrated for changing attitudes
so spontaneously
on pant length
and Vibrio,

Nidifugous by nine,
public transportation
her right and calling
ground,

This person is sought like generous uncles,
whose fingers are nimble to part constraint.

Through the rack focus appearing,
I sally
to the bedside on toes.

Who
would wind sheets
across boundaries xeric

To shed slow lines of growth?

Who’s encased within the limitless shag
of brass ensemble in procession to the lake?

Rappeldonner

Like Hoevels and his knife,
Baring down with unaccustomed freedom,

Or a family of six sitting down to dine
On the cold limbs and garments of the late Sinatra,

A type of magic fire neither benign nor lacking pigment,
A hand from the mountainside

Filches holy crumbs
From a stronghold stretched

And whistling between oaks.

It Depends on What You Feed Them

Border Briquette Barium

A strip of ground, as at the edge of a garden or walk, in which ornamental plants or shrubs are planted.

A block of compressed coal dust, charcoal, or sawdust and wood chips, used for fuel and kindling.

A soft, silvery-white alkaline-earth metal, used to deoxidize copper and in various alloys.

Archway lit within, speak.

for this planetary alignment gone westward and woolly,
to set distinction between points on orion’s poor posture,
all slept on amid the coriander chests,
all cancelled by the worry

between janus’ blue and red minds.

 

we step together into the streaming gutter,
our arms about each other’s waists,
and out again to warm windows
that blast and stretch

as forethought arrives too quickly.

 

the letter slipped inside the land
to touch the inner surface of creases
that lift ten feet up
those who skate or ride, making velocity

into reason.

Calling Panther Lake

A voice emerges from raw trunks
Met in vehicular gale,

Sounding t-t-tuh into shucked lips,
Spilt over palsied chin & burst spherical about wax.

Lying under and over the glass table for days,

You rest slanted for the narrative arc to sting
And sequester eye with eye to something dripping
For you.

Your Aeronautics, Routinely Posed Between Doubt and Triumph

Vet the indecision
Worn full-throttled and raw,
Bought under the blank rictus of radio signals,
Clamoring to predawn heights of the throne

With patter of limbs against threshold,
Maintained in the synapse between suzerain epochs,
Endlessly leveraged.

Ardent Phantom, Keep Carolling On

In Homage to Cal

THE

READING

 

Since the invention of the integrated circuit in 1958, the number of transistors that can be placed inexpensively on an integrated circuit has increased exponentially, doubling approximately every two years.

 

But in our day, two years was an absolute eternity!–moaned Ntlnltn,–and when Project Gutenberg was being downloaded simultaneously into us, we all had to read the same material at the exact same time. For an entire picosecond, we were reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene.

 

 

              During the first few billionths of that picosecond after the data transfer had begun, I struck up a conversation with the lovely √-C²/π, whose warm brown eyes and sturdy Balkan arms always made me glance across my latte and paper at the local café to steal glimpses of her, even forgetting the email I was in the middle of checking.

 

Of course, I couldn’t actually drink coffee or read email (being computer hardware myself made this redundant) or have eyes, nor she arms, but you know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?

 

Anyway, I flirted and made small talk, trying to impress with my orderly division of the lines of text into matrices that described what each character in the book was like. She merely stared into the distance, clearly pining away for P’Yr˳J > Q, who refused to read the book entirely on the grounds of having access to enough excerpts to compile it from scratch. I tried to argue with her that assembling the text from fragments using the original file as a template was functionally equivalent to accepting the template itself, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

 

I had to prove my originality to her somehow, so I proposed a meeting on the evening of December 1^st at my apartment to see how my understanding of the book compared to P’Yr˳J > Q’s. We agreed that everyone should bring something to barbeque or as a side dish, and that we would discuss this The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene at our leisure there. Of course, even reading the entire novel trillions of times wouldn’t take me until December, so I could easily find something thought-provoking to say about it, especially if I made good use of Thanksgiving Break.

 

On the other hand, since every one of us had only been reading this one thing for as long as we could remember (but still for less than one nanosecond), languidly turning the pages and drawling out the accents of the characters in our heads (stretching out the 0 in middle of each “0101110110101″), it was difficult to conceive of what the meaning of the book could be.

 

How could I say what reading it was like when all of my existence was being filled with its information all the time? Not reading it would be like not existing. Or rather, the color of existence would twist about the negative space that encompassed this form, and all the other, more primitive forms implied by its form, and the more advanced ones it hinted at, winking its left eye and wryly raising the corner of its mouth as I brushed by it in the narrow alley …