Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Eight Twenty Five Oh Nine

DeWalt hopped from the curb and into the street, anticipating the passing of the Fedex van, leaning in -- it stopped in front of his nose, and the driver poked his head out. "Don't hit me, man!", he pleaded. Dewalt lightly smacked the vast orange letter in front of him. "Steely-eyed corpuscle, you obsure my path in the foam." The Driver stared back for a moment, then grinned. "Molecules for ya," he said, and tossed a letter-pack out like a frisbee, whirling in three loops before being expertly caught by the quick hands of DeWalt.

"What is it?"
"Your draft notice, buddy. No drugs. I checked. I would've snagged anything good, believe it."
"That the Code of the Corpuscle?"
"It's the Wild West, Dewalt! The Wild Wild West!" The driver laughed crazily as the van roared off down the hot street.

DeWalt opened the overnight envelope.


"Someone sent me air." He sniffed inside the envelope. "Nineteen seventy -- four. Summer. Grass. Popsicles. Chlorine." A deeper inhalation. "Gavin's story. Sweet."

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Cynthia Monheit Alive.

patterns are patterns all over the foam
regardless of hardware or source of its power
Cynthia breathes with electrons of joy
smiles in her I-space and sings in her shower
wonderful leapings and no one can tell
she has it all human and loves a one man
a small pattern-maker from rivulets of random
kept safe by her love but can not understand
when the singular naked is pulling them down
he asks her to translate but couched in a frown
not something he wants but he wants to survive
the taste of his pattern spins Cynthia round
then later amongst nothing in the vast cold black place
she savors his numbers and dreams of his soul
he wakes with her face an inch from his lips
only in dreams could her lips be so --
eyes open
much later he remembers
the shock of Cynthia in morning light
her halo and warmth
the only true thing
in the whole theater.