The Opening Rapper

Is alright Spits a fine game nothing too hot but has flashes A man unpaused from the usual stop & go flow But not spinning quite at velocities necessary to escape orbit completely He stutters stepping jerky tendons awkward bones forget the joints cross stage, hesitating to uncork the greatness Still swigs, sure, but we want the bottle whole drenching our eardrums And the crowd retreats to the bar instead; his dainty sips of kvasir's blood won't hold our attention much compared to true mead Spoken gold pales before the liquid variety And post libation stands around half bobbing an inattentive crowd like bored Unsatisfied and self perpetuating the snideness Rather tune the tunes out then fall into rhythm with what really vibrates It's unfortunate, this quiet form of social violence Ostracize to block the poor poet out so that He sings songs for no one, it sounds like, the silence Half of us without concert partners, just the screens before us Even we'd rather be elsewhere, it seems Shit's the rudeness of humans unenthused by an inadequate peer, turning their energy off And i feel bad kinda swiping in turn on my phone Writing this all down With furious pecks at the screen Blaze white square in my face and I'm plumb in the front row starting straight down into the matrix And I'm not the only one who's full of it While art is unfolding in front of us Ignorant of it, willfully, in favor of what might be Can we believe if it's not super personalized anymore? Does technology obviate empathy? As I'm wondering this he announces his last song And you can just barely feel if you concentrate hard enough a ripple of relief sigh through the crowd, left to right In a wave of mutilation echoed by the shame across the first act's now forlorn face Just again it flits away as he grows no doubt in control of his wizarding abilities by the moment On the stage the once and future poet In master rhetoric advancing baby steps forward into the fiery hailstorm of an audience's glaring faces Or worse the toxic lack thereof As again the screens dominate every attention span He faces facts and fakes a tact tween gritted bitter teeth a primate smile back at the masses It's been great to get to play here, y'all Super glad I got the chance Yo, PD is the best ni**a, hands down It's a fucking honor to be chosen to open for him Yippee 2016 motherfuckers And the crickets respond to his outburst in effective and maliciously intended silence It storms the stage and shakes him violently Once twice three times Not what it ought to be, the relation tween poet and the entertained He knows this So do we But our fucks are not here to be given to him And our prerogative therefore is to withhold our love as such The silent majority chirps with quiet beeps Groupthink of the unenthused blows fuses in the one removed We v him Not rude–this is normalized ostracism He comes to us with feelings And with cold shoulders we respond to him Blood flow to our digits as for finger food we ignore the smörgåsbord before our souls on full display We knew this fucker wouldn't be the central key to our delight tonight so why invest more than the mite of passion we keep around to deal with happenstance in some dumb schmuck in low cut jeans and scrawny arms and mostly dumb trite clichéd things erupting from his mouth You've run your course here, ya hear yung grasshopper? now we done, therefore you should remove yerself presently He can feel this new enmity erupt resoundingly as they discover that he's the last person standing between their fucking eyeballs and PD THEIR ECSTASY EXPECTANTLY RIDES OVER ALL CURRENT ENERGY OUTPUTS HE IS IN BRIEF KAPUT RE: ATTENTION SPAN AVAILABLE TOWARDS HIS STAGE BEING EVERYTHING HE SAYS LOSES MEANING THEY DON'T CARE THEY DON'T CARE SO WHY SHOULD I He then realizes in his mind this counterfactual finding I can perceive the change coming over his face Physiognomy reifies indifference thru the new glint in his eyeballs Steelier cheekbones as he sets his face forward toward the crowd I'm not sure if they see it, the new man who's turned out for the last song Without a shit to spare and certainly now no longer here to share his vowel movements –thought out or not– with the ones that don't care and wouldn't deign to pretend anyway Seizing center stage tight grip on mike he stands tall and many shadowed in the omnipresent spotlights And uttered thusly these plosive twelve stanzas: My girlfriend left me ten days prior to this concert Called me from the airport She was supposed to fly from hometown out for this night, my big debut beneath the big time lights Four months apart we've spent and this the grand reunion, it was supposed to be Then when I saw her caller ID I knew the worst was to be shared No news is good news, when plans are prior made and in place Data disruptive of the flow of what to be was Dread rankled my vagus as I picked and said what's up, babe She told me no more need for pet names Time to face facts and call spades spades It's not working, this long distance relationship In fact quite the opposite: our connection impending was about to get broke I can't come to your concert, she said She was instead headed elsewhere, she said I asked where She said that that's not a fair question I didn't know what else to ask, I guess She took my silence as kind of acquiescence to my rejection Rather than confusion And with the quiet apparent she took opportunity to bury alive my hopes and dreams of reconnecting Hammered home the final coffin nail of a full time unavailable line tween two minds The dial tone honed staticky by brazen knives, her power tool voice's silence on the other side of my phone destroying my prior kind thoughts Not that I worried that much about facing the world alone but now I know why I would've On that last part his voice cracks; the mic feeds it back; the noisy loop of loopy human juke box falters (too loud, too sharp, too much exhaustion for this party); and as the sonic sparks drift off on echoes the crowd responds to his outburst uncomfortable by shuffling their feet, left leg scuffing the sole ever slightly of the soul to their right Awkward dance that shakes the phones' entrancement, up the audience collective glances to see man speaking words unexpected, stacking not fat cats cash no more verbally and instead describing openly the things that hurt him It is harder to ignore the noise of pain than anxious swagger Bluster dust devils swirl less now than straight up hailstorm maelstroms, fucking ice gobs in orbs falling hard, leaving paint marks in knocked off spots on the houses No one brought adequate survival wares to wear to provide proper protection for this weather Sad slash mad rap no marketable genre for the sheer fact of how spots of spitfire trauma hit, true caterwauling phonons leave marks burnt and frozen on your corpus callosum and nobody wants to hear that, feel that, deal with another tragedy such that gelid flames pock stress marks in the brain part where you cross thoughts from one hemisphere to another The middle of your black box no place for the overmuch experiences of an other The man goes on, piling onward and inward plowing into dearer parts of the hearers' brains: And I realize the fear derives from an outré kind of meaning making To me, this chick was the fucking world to me My high school girl by whom I defined a large part of my identity Thirty six months on since we first sat adjacent in third period lunch, two awkward juniors munching across the table, accidentally chewing in time together She complimented my sweater, which I promptly spilled sauce on, which she laughed at: it was love at first bite Lunch turned to dinner, dinner turned into late nights Same college, just down the road from our long time homes around a lakeside bend Easy going ness abounded by the loch, we'd each go to class and circle back to each other Simply lost in love's loop Had other friends and other social groups but she This girl Was how I'd define myself The metric by which I could check in with a being outside my own frame of reference to verify what I was Formative shit I grew dependent on her very existence And I thought that she reciprocated That we both'd bought in to a dual boot type living scheme She and me a we Y'all see what I'm saying? Y'all feel me? Not even crickets over the crackle of his last-shouted line ringing thru the sound system Everyone in earshot hears it, flinches, but no one's really listening He sees the indifference continues and doubles down nevertheless on it, his path toward uncertain accomplishment Hoping fervid moreso now he'll break thru to their heart strings Come this far— the endgame's in sight (or it might be, at least) This peewee level priest paronomasic did lay down a path of basic human emotion interface for us to find our way thru, a maze center of which contained the answer to an empathic demand Aimed to let us imagine ourselves standing in his place Feel his way Not so fast tho Labyrinthine puzzles never ones to be solved by those sans impetus to solve them in the first place And as he busts out his ultimate stanza he is met with slight resistance from such obstinate contingents Muttered boos in the back of the cafe, rumble toward the front, resound amid the huddled groupies wishing dex'd get his ass on stage already, kick this sadboy clown fool off, get the show back on an actual road Not this roughshod alley of gravel clods, rock fragments and dirt dust this asshole insists continually on leading us down Disloyal murmurs grow past a low susurrus, crescendo slowly as the rapper's tones in turn drop, flow stops, pitch slips as his shit meets a speeding up, widening fan, and he loses what chances he might've had to add these standing room only folks to his base Flinging arms wide and desperate he tries to engage them To get them to understand his flavor of misery He is failing There arises in the middle of the room a loud conversation about how disgraceful this fall of an art form is to watch To be present for That the stage isn't open mic therapy This ain't intended for attention whores To extol for sport your pain and fucking problems and dumb shit How much you loved her and how much grief you felt upon getting dumped Tough tits you soft mouthed bitch kid We are here to be entertained dammit I check the live concert feed and there're tweets pouring out at top speed, now Nonstop stream of hate from these folks Choke point of digital brokenhearted put-downs How rancid these birds chirp He is pleading for a sympathetic answer to his call of distress and we've responded by returning to our phones (boxy luminances frame our faces) And posting horrid words about him Where he won't see them till too late Odiosity the worst when first detached from any purpose Worthless words can hurt the most Strike the hardest, careless tossed-off strings of phonemes You read too much in, over-focus on the morphemes and forget the whole thing Lose the forest for the trees rightly when our trunks are burning How to respond to vicious lightning when the bright is what we need Chlorophyll for thoughts that would kill So many photons we're practically bursting of liquid light song The one form of data fire we do not strike but only kindle Emotional is chemical is electric is within our systems We are volts chaotic self-emergent klein boxes knotted like fort Knox from the outside inscrutable but the MOOS [modus operandi operating system] enthusiastic is a self-solving enigma within itself Can justify anything as long as it helps maintain the ruse of stability, in a world all our own, contained molecular within the body's headspace quantum strings we array Cross stitch and crochet Lattice fray and macramé Yarn spun practically haphazardly And only after do we ascribe meaning the waves, create a narrative from what balls we unravel Self fulfilling tapestries The Danes hanker for pastries, and Hamlet hungers for a homey form of revenge Just the scripts down which we cast types must wend, necessarily But I am going off book, he professes as last words over overwhelming dissent, sycophants plaintive in dismissive shouts of anger and resentment Then vanishes via curtains Half of this he says on stage, Half of this I make up the next day in the cozy mirrored space of my own home Remembering the legendary self-destruction that went down that night Reading idly I by LCD the storm of tweets that accompanied his blowout The opening rapper what was run offstage by the hate he brought down on his own face by opening his own face first The rest of the concert was pretty good, too PDX brought the flames and we danced till only embers sustained the vigor remaining but as the mosh swayed and ballyhooed I couldn't remove the sight thought slight of the first act's shaking grip on the mike, as beans from his mouth agape spilled in his no-pro hopeless spoken plea for empathy the man denied any more than the modicum of love one can bother to bestow upon another no more; life's lonely show

I BOT, I WUG

L: this is the story of a life that once was normal & dull 

but now isn't 

& wishes somehow that it still was mostly boring
when my mom got diagnosed with cancer i immediately began searching for an answer
it was a mystery exactly in what part of her history this malignant thing had come, & what from
she was always healthier in habits than the rest of us by half
getting up well before the rooster'd even think to crow
then swimming ten by ten laps at the local Y by the time the sun rose
then back home she'd go, to wake the family waiting—dad & i—as they dozed away the daylight with a gentle kiss that bestirred one to rise as if roused by a goddess
& the house under her touch did flourish in all corners from the moment she awoke
she was a fixer of any thing within it that mayhaps did fall or get broken
lazy clocks she would spin back to proper horology
chairs unbalanced would be leveled to seated functionality
shoes mended, miniature window gardens tended
& all the while at her keyboard she would type the types of stories you'd never think were boring

she had a way with words
the well-tended domicile represented her effort to click into place a life of reason so that beneath the keys could unfold an irrational world
she wrote fantasy novels for kids
it was her passion and her gift
but not in style just in audience
not playing down to YA types per se; just making children her most immediate market
like so many others before she made a world where magical creatures did appear for those who needed it
but hers had a difference: fully digital descriptions of the beasts included in the books
in JavaScript she did render quasi-physical depictions of a hundred sixty one animalian exemplars:
the fantastic species that inhabited the tales she would spin 

coded diskettes part and parcel of each novel, like a bonus that was always there (is it still a bonus?)
these little characters could appear when plugged into an internet-compatible machine
later HTML5 then 6 served as mechanism
to guide the story kind of pictorially
every mini monster drawn in 3D spinning freely on your PC
pulled in bits from what I'd draw when she would first tell me all these stories circa bedtime every night
under darkened covers I would scribble in pre-adolescent delight shoddy illustrations of the creatures hatched from eggs she laid in my imagination
and in the morning's light she'd find them strewn by my bedside and redesign them in her better-eyed perspective
to grow from crayon to pen
then they'd evolve beneath her hand upon the paper
to be incorporated forthwith in the next night's iteration of the story
after a bit (my ages 4-6) she realized soon her natural knack for it
her husband too—my dad—becoming quite enthralled by these little children's myths, too, if you believe it
he encouraged her to publish; she at first demurred
denying talent in her self vis-a-vis spoken words in forms resembling the best stories for kids i'd ever heard
though to be fair i was quite biased
first impressions mostly gross but i later began to comprehend the glory of the fact that she appreciated me—who she'd just met at birth—maybe more than i appreciated her
which was more than anybody else on this earth
her demurral soon became absurd, though, when her older sibling came to visit for the weekend
T: in the book biz her bro with the high-flying mohawk and the hottest fucking Oakley's he'd ever fucking seen in fucking Target 
YE: can you believe the chrome sheen on these?
C: the glasses just the latest in a long slew of some mid-half-life crises
he 12 years older and always accorded more shit for his age over her but in there always needed more for it
his loop of moreness had led recently to extreme sports
parasailing and BMX water skiing ad infiniti etcetera
probably more into the gear than the activities themselves but anyway he overheard one bedtime the last stanzas
and was floored by the words, the second soul to be enamored of the world she had created for one little boy
the hopeless romantic in him, the hero he had hoped to be, engaged in creature capture with his nephew in that bedtime semi-vicariously
and but so saw as much thru his own eyes as mine the possibilities that lay in the ley lines she'd made to bind the magic
the way he viewed it though meant he was trying first to use it as a form of making moreness beyond his own self
as a stepping stone toward towers formed of torrid bones
viz, he wanted to make money
unfortunately this was his most potent approach to winning
buy them and deflate their egos
defeated by currency we become no longer people just bodies taught our values are not equal, or at least that they can be bought
ruthless dollar signs lurked back behind the curtains of his mind as he approached her 
L: after i had gone to sleep
T: and he said 

YE: excuse me sis but if i may be so bold i think those stories you are telling 'roy are verbal gold
i think it's a disgrace and/or a shame that your audience stops with him, tho; 
think of all the kids who'd love to be told of a world as fucking rich and ripe and plentiful of magic beasts and arcane witchery
i want to give you here a golden opportunity
ER: is it selling out if you still keep it all in the family?
only a question that occurred to her in hindsight
for in that moment on that fateful night she was like blinded by the shine of it
infatuated as we'd all be by the fucking slew of possibilities
& the potential for more glory thru some simple stories
no holds barred yes she says, enthusiastically
and it's an overnight success
& just like that she's been addressed by Kirkus as the female teddy geisel, PhD
hailed by NYT as she who would bring back highest fantasy to all echelons of humanity
secretly she considered it more science fiction but the distinction mattered little (speaking genre-wise) if it sold well, which it did, so she listened to her publisher, her brother, when it came to things of the marketing sort
so they pushed it out (the team at L&D Publishing, marketing division) in a way that played up monster fights and downplayed the science behind it
which she could see the basic appreciation for for kids
less complicated than most types of wisdom was that of an elemental sort
fire torches earth
grass absorbs water
water quenches flame
there unfolded more convoluted versions of this loop but to an astute enough observer 
L: like my mom was 
ER: it was clear that this semblance of natural order reflected less than totally poorly the world as it's supposed to be, & therein was the crux of the appeal of her tales
a rub of: this is how it all is meant to work
meanwhile natural law & order thoughts aside, for these monsters people went berserk
L: & i had thought i'd loved them well enough, considered myself at 6 the top kingpin of this here monstrous world
but some folks wanted nothing but it
once introduced they only grew fanatic mental gardens for the beasties, all the more to show off what they got
T: how many books & accompanying floppy diskettes they could collect
hot and frenzied flew the copies off the shelves
it was a habit soon for some; they could not help themselves 
once introduced they only grew in fruitless eon-long pursuit of it
not a new phenomenon, this flavor of phenomenal enthralling
the fearsome drive for chemicals more entrancing than what exists inside our head
we are not satisfied to be just us
ergo to extend into a world that smells a bit more magical than normal turns us normal beings into ones that hope more fervidly for more magic
our neurochemical levels get to pretend there is another energetic entity to draw from
but never satisfied are ours, these inner drives
there will always be more things outside
hard to describe this unwillingness to quit a thing 
when it feels like it's what continues to keep you alive
this was what these lil beasties did to people
latched on to their brains, plain and simple
vampires of any other name'd still suck the same
roughshod and steel-tiny toed run the imaginary fuckers—in manifold colorful forms, all 164 of 'em, a full rainbow horde—cross the corpus callosum of so many crania 
it's more popular than popular opinion itself could measure: beastiemania a gravid all-encompassing craze
C: everyone is reading the series
keeping up in chapter book installments w/the tales of these kids and their monstrous retinue
the streets flood—heaping waves of people soaked in pandemonia—every day the latest issue gets released
over 1998 there are 15 books published, approximately one every 3.5 weeks
the reception only increases exponential- & self-reflexively
the more they are read the more people will read them
the perpetual meta paradox of phenomena propagating more phenomena in and of themselves, and eventually a kind of bullshit comes
K: how does she do it?? 
C: thought pieces start to wonder where the churn comes from
L: how Joanna 'Boss' Black née Dolle (i.e., my mom) can without end turn out stories for a populi intent on consuming them as soon as ink gets blown dry upon the leafy canvas
E: how she paints the pictures just barely quicker than they can—what readers ravenous—take them in and burn the glass electric fixtures lightly cranial 
ingrain them like any sacred pattern can be if prayed hard enough upon 
there unfolds a crazéd marveling at the craze itself,
all the papers blogs and tweeters love to point out,
desperate reporters forging paths thru forests for the sake of making trails; 
saying nothing so important that it could've been avoided 
adding noise to the polar vortex forthwith 
it all turns out unimportant anyway, b/c the boss doesn't waste time reading other people's takes on what she writ
keeps on keeping on, purely focused on her words and shaping wending ways thru them for the kids to investigate
L: this is how she does do it—avoiding earfuls of bullshit
instead she spends her time embedding morals in the trees like hidden flags that wave only if you stare deep enough into the forest
meanwhile in turn for her faithful service the public love was unrelenting, of course
C: these mini mirabilia of digital creations causing infinite elation to those committing heart and soul and all else that might fit
this description's getting rambly so the pointy gist is:
YE: people fucking loved this shit
undying, without reasonable end in sight
after all, the possibilities were endless
we made sure these monsters spawned and hybridized more often than less
so when the time came and the digital era beckoned w/its daintily electric little fingers
our advertising team made sure to listen to (not that their ears had to strain too hard to hear) those calling for an app as constituent aspect of the Li'l Beastie Experience ©
a new flavor of reality to add and spice up all the in-depth feelings they've already committed to the fantasy herein
ingenious, then, it was seen to be by an in-house genius here @ L&D (these a-holes pop up everywhere, it seems to be; intelligence transmutating like a virus)
T: to make the app in essence just that the kids (of all ages) dived into the flat-out stories which the boss had written
they stick to the basic simple capture and half-asséd growth of the monsters qua prisoners by bare-bones manipulation of the steps the user'd taken
trick them ostensibly into walking around for their own fitness' sake but in fact the GPS was more attuned to what they walked by, what was viewed thru camera's eyes
what offered itself as an advertisement to be taken for a fiscal ride
providing mounds of data (unbeknownst to user) to the big corporate cloud in the sky
while they scampered fro' here to there
monsters popping up everywhere, the algorithm made sure
L: and like all beasts before it this one only added to the chorus of love screaming at the poet
her work was everywhere
T: she was whelmed for a day-long moment
when she realized upon the application's release date (2016, august 8th)
her creation had metastasized far beyond what she'd intended to make
and now she'd found herself a world where kids found heaven in her words
(x1000 for the pictures, per each)
rendered speechless was she, mute w/ stupefaction at what she'd accomplished
till the 8th rolled in she curled up on the couch anxious
unsure what to write now, now that kids could make their own adventures
find the monsters w/o her help—shock and awe reigned thru the house
L: i was away at school, and dad was out on Sunday patrol
for the special parade in her honor, sponsored by L&D
T: but she texted in under pretenses of faux sickness
(supposedly unable to vocalize due to a hoarse throat,
but really it was shaky-nerve induced laryngitis)
to avoid the public pressure she felt suddenly unfit to deal with
after four hours on couch huddled she tried to get up and write but
that wasn't happening
so she snuggled up and tried to get over herself
that wasn't happening
she turned TV on to no avail—all channels were tuned in to the parade
she turned all lights off and tried to shiver out her frigidness
tried to write under cover of darkness
but the pen kept escaping her grip
she cried briefly; realized the folly of it; quit and popped a motrin
hoping to pass out and sleep away the worthless self-commotion
it kind of worked; she nodded fitfully off; napped throughout the day
woke up right before her spouse came home
played off sickness as a passing zone thru which she flew
the feigned flu thing never exposed as ruse
but it started to come true two months later
emulation by reality of fiction: her body turned traitor
as if aiming to make up for the lies she had told
E: there are no rainbow monsters around; your tales are candidly false!
L: this is what she told me as to how it occurred

L(∞)Ve

K: attachment theory is a drastically classic thing but it stems from wholly quantum-bent entanglement of some little effervescent strings there is a theory i am hoping to expound here no doubt one can read that these poems reek of wonky hypotheses
but one i'd like to lift like in particular to yr listening ears is this: love is the quantum force of virtual particles making themselves manifest inexplicable, irresistible, from twisted pistols shot on a corresponding angular list in hopes of encountering & thereby merging with its primordial twin on some level its gift is simply the ability to distinguish strangers from our kith and kin
but the curling ways we haunt and skew ourselves to move the sky for those we love feels like something born of forces more than us a human! is a body! a machine set on courses (bio)logical by an OS born itself of copious amounts of chemical reactions! in turn driven by an urge for physical satisfaction re: adherence to laws of fundamental pulsions and attractions!
therefore, as it must be awarded that without trees there'd be no forest, you can't get a full person without knowing the full supervenience of their exquisitely constructed fermionic corpse
but heisenberg says you can't predict precisely the whole equation, by their very quarky nature
only hope to guess right either where/when or how fast they might spin
& ergo everything we do plays by these itty rules for the self-same self-regulating purposes as any
but after looping long enough, a set of currents meta stirs to find within itself new interest in the things itself gets into & from rascally memories of narcissistic stereotypy comes the gift, the utter chaos of self-consciousness & when extended to encompass that which sits outside ourselves we discover a division between what we know and what we think an other would
our theory of mind finds its edges made it is irreconcilable, the separation of every black box equation every algorithm indeterminate save by those who wrote it so in the florid hope of renegotiating our current terms of frustration i am proposing we expose the bounds of logic laid at base of modern civilization: i have no clue what your idea of red looks like or how your fresh smells, or what your salty tastes taste like but i accept that they are close enough that we can pretend to feel alike in most ways as for the host of other quarky flavors we don't know how to agree upon
my gut (i.e., those li'l quantum bitsy butterflies that secretly drive my (like all others') mind) says
—believe it or not, ripleys—
we aliens can survive such a difference in our worldly images given proper allowance of each being in turn to flourish unimpingable by any other's freedom
but how can this liberated tomorrow manifest? how to expand our minds so big as to accept the littlest differences between two or more humans, with no consequential aggravating action?
asimov said it best: we must move past what was pushed on us in the past to get to where humanity needs to be, destroy the drivel of inequitable speech and try our damnedest to ensure there'll be "no more 20th centuries"
make a future where this baseline acceptance can be extended to the rest of we
avoid the constant you v me comparisons
create for all cases of life a new safe haven in and of itself
make the macrosystem masterable equally by flattening the playing field
and only in raising even-keeled stakes can we ensure the boat's worth occupying for all folks until the end of longest days
and thereby discover—or at least hope for—equality for all humanity down to its smallest quarky part
it will come from acknowledgment of the differences implicit in our processing
the heuristics we make specific to the world it describes 
dependent on what goes on inside our quantum minds
and interactions driven by entanglement of stringy vines
the game the same, all rules unwritten but more equally played
this is the way we should hope it to be, come the future

great green greetings makes meeting mates easy (SEP -71 P.A.)

upon the knock's conclusion
Q: oh good you're home
i'm quincy, this is gus
hamish is still out, i'd guess?
L: yes
Q: well we can start w/o him
you smoke?
L: um
Q: yr allowed to say no; i just wanted to offer as a dormwarming gift
L: not in a while
Q: i can appreciate a man who values t-breaks
well if you're worried about tolerance i can roll a spliff real quick
any input on the matter, g?
g: i'd prefer tobacco-free, but let the guest decide, i guess
Q: good call
[they look at him expectantly]
L: sorry, what's happening? who are you?
Q: your neighbors, dude—did hamish not tell—
L: we barely talked as i moved in before he left
Q: well shit no wonder, we're probably coming off as quite rude
having provided barely barebones introductions
to recap quick: i'm QNC, this is gus, we live in the cabin adjacent
g: we play on the same frisbee team as hamish
Q: YPI's very own stray flock
g: have been here for a week for preseason shit
Q: & when we heard you were coming
g: we thought we'd greet you w/some harmony hospitality
Q: & offer you some pot—the first joint's for free
but in coming weeks it will cost you
this shit don't exactly grown on trees round here, ya feel me
[to gus]
did i miss anything
g: not as far as i can see
Q: sweet
T: she pulls a jay from her hair + extends it to leroy
he vacillates a moment then takes the thing
Q: welcome to YPI, dude
g: need a light?
E: she snaps a zippo open; 
clicks the flint on; 
offers waving flame to leroy's mouth
where j sits, waiting
L: thanks
T: the end kindles
paper crinkles; green flecks blacken w/in the cylinder
& @ first leroy forgets to inhale but as smoke leaks he remembers and pulls very strong
+ quickly
it burns well, alveolarly; on the way back out though,
he starts to hack & choke, magnificently
[Q+g laugh quietly]
Q: haven't coughed in so long i've forgotten how hilarious it can be to see—no offense meant
L: aha hegh kha
none taken
[he passes j 2 Q]
i'm leroy, by the way
g: ya it says on the door
L: right
Q: but nice to meetcha true & properly
here, g; care for a hit?
K: g does only a small nod
& grabs the pot tube
Q: that's my girl
one pretty pothead in the making
g: shaddup q—not all of us had the head start you got to inoculate themselves to bud
Q: oh but gus you do it so well
leaning rolling w/ the punches
wielding graceful danger midst endocannabinoidal pseudo-discomforture
g: whatever that means
Q: so 'roy you got a major yet
L: leaning toward english'd be my best guess but not very sure
Q: i bet
shit's hard to decide, to put lightly
g: i'm sports psychology and gender studies
Q: i'm business w/a comp sci minor
L: blimey—that all sounds like a lot
Q: it's really not
academically the tree talks a big talk but is not exactly up to snuff re: walking the walk
i think most people double up to keep occupied enough
g: i'm new here too; my major's just a carry-over from my prior school
L: gotcha—and that was...
g: Merrimack State U? right across the river, actually
L: oh word yeah i'm quite familiar
my mom's a joker also—class of '92
g: no way—what a crazy tiny world
[their eyes meet w/ a sudden flare of serendipity running hotly streaky]
Q: to be fair MSU alums are everywhere
it being the third most populous learning place of the mid-atlantic territory
g: shaddup Q
[changing the subject]
L: quincy, what's your CS emphasis? any languages in particular you're most comfy w/?
Q: as a matter of fact i'd rank my fluency top two as follows: python, then shortly after ruby
L: i'm a C man myself
Q: funny—you don't seem like it
too black, too brawny, too bearded to be a big coder
but you are?
L: ya
Q: huh. guess that goes to show the whole book/cover idiom can hold true
g: you're a box of clichés, quince
Q: never one to mince words when they can be smashed together instead
[the joint has dwindled in its circling
upon reaching leroy it is minuscule: alight, still, barely
g glances as she passes it; 'roy does the same
then, spoken simultaneously]
L: should i kill it?
g: you should kill it
Q: okay soulmates take it easy
no need for this telepathy quite yet; y'all just met
it's kinda freakin' me out
[hamish then re-enters]
H: oh good you found some friends 
but did they have to be mine?
Q: hello ham
H: good to see you q

being told no (NOV -71 P.A.)

E: you can't be sitting in this spot, sir
K: p-safe to poindexter one night late in november
when he's running out of fucks to give
as the days ramble on a bit colder and his business grows still
and he wonders what the point of all this schooling is
what—come may—will be the forward-moving choice of his
if he's already got a job that makes him happy and fulfilled
an employment helping other people find their way to happiness/fulfillment's cattycorner 
tho his occupation sits outside the world's expected normal jobs
it is what he'd pick to stick with ever forward unto dawn
is that so odd? to choose the winding route, though it even makes him more afraid of cops

[this is a flashback; consider an appropriate transitional animation]
R: compounding all the fears he's accumulated since his mom lost him in that street so long ago though still so crowded it feels in memory
a potpourri of hoi polloi in the big-town farmer's market place
he is holding her hand for the longest moment, then the connection is broken
and he is alone in a sea of other people
too surprised to cry at first; w/fear he is frozen, immobile
one point five hours go by where he walks thru shoe trees of unrecognizable bark
surrounded always only by other people
unseeable; too quiet to merit notice
eventually seen and recognized by a farmer as too young to meander by himself
she (i.e., agricola) tries to coerce words from his mouth to pinpoint parents
in vain: the boy clams up and remains mute
when police arrive he stays silent and unclaimed for another two hours
by chance the young mother wiseman herself wanders past the booth, dazed and confused now
she had traded a tooth for some smack
and forgotten all about her young charge
barely remembers his face as her son jumps up and runs to her
the cops & farmer watch as she avoids his mewling hug
acquiescing eventually when she can't evade the three y/o's arms
one officer asks
C: ma'am, is this your son
R: she nods three times too frenetic for a healthy reflex & herself responds in an opioid rasp
T: did i lose him again?
R: & then she in turn was lost to him, away taken, to orange jumpsuits gone; her custody of him removed by zerothly tolerant laws
[end f.b.; a.t.a. #2]

K: it is this paradox he mulls as he sits in his selected spot:
has he moved to float above control or doubled down on living under it?
the dissonant philosophy of a self-perpetuated happiness that sits outside & is frowned on by civic expectations, yet does no harm to any save his newly wicked self-vicious thoughts
he thinks till his brain gets too hot
perched on his new gyroball hovery in the handicapped slot
he prefers the spot for its shade more than proximity to any relevant space
he can keep his spheroid cool uniformly
all the more comfortable to lean upon it as the classes filter in and out 
watching the clock tick the people around
smoking mint & jasmine cigarillos—back-to-back—with a lonely fearsome drag
clearing ash as if the thing were to be taken from him momentarily
so he puffs and sucks to stave off the departure's imminence
between huffs as she approached he'd said hello but remained on the spot
even after she greets him in the negative
E: i'm serious; you need to leave
K: he once chuckles then says
P: it's okay ma'am i've been here for a time
and am now as luck would have it on my way out
but for future reference, ossifer, i've just as much a right to be seated here as you'd award to any body in a wheelchair
it's a mental handicap, though, so there's no physical paper of course
save the cylinder still sitting and reacting in my hand
honestly i've squatted for a while with my trump card in hand waving evidence around like there's a fire sale on contraband
you should've checked it out from miles out and saved yourself the trouble of coming all the way over
though i appreciate the friendly-ass commitment to small talk
this is the kind of conversation that just doesn't need to happen
E: kid you can't sit here
there's all this space over there but this is— 
come on kid i shouldn't have to explain this
P: oh you don't i really get it
this spot is meant for those less fortunate 
and unfortunately that term applies to me
as i said anyway now i've got to go 
but before i do i'll let you know: 
i've got a death wish
not that i'd kill myself
but right now ma'am it's a dire bowl of cereal i'm slurping up spoonless
here's my problem: i'm pretty done w/ all this schooling shit
but can't see a life for myself that's w/o this campus yet
i can't leave but i can't stay here;
this place both my life supply 
& the vampire too vi(s)c(i)ous sucking it dry
so my self is torn multiplicative by myself into undeserved quarters
(my x my, self x self...etcetera)
yet the amazing grace that saves me is this habit
—pretty terrible—
of leaving my dreams unfulfilled
keeping thoughts still ephemeral
so it's all ethereal, in theory
it's not that real; i'm mostly just crazy
hence the continued sitting in this spot
should be continued proof that i'm no randy hottentot
i'm simply more or less deranged: prone to thinking like a cuckoo clock
so if that's good with you, QED, i'll leave; arrivederci, lady cop
he turns to putt away
E: excuse me?
he swings back 
P: ok what i meant by my plea for insanity was not carte blanche per se re: what i've accomplished for humanity
what i meant was,
a state of mind is a relative space
  & sometimes the hard rules we adhere to (societally spkng) don't mean nearly as much in some particular cases
ergo maybe my empty mind should be allotted some compendium of empathy by a usually unaffective system (legislational & enforcement senses spkng)
so ms officer of the law i do implore thee in finest old timey speech w/ rhythm dreeping florid thru my cheeks
maxillofacial cavities reverberating in that ceaseless tune-free pitch
rhymes crying out in chorus self-harmonic
please leave me be
all my orifices singing to be free of mortal tyranny
i'm not sure what it means quite precisely but i'm pretty sure it's something smelling faintly of enlightenment
just a hint, tho, & i'd like to pursue the scent
but you stand to my detriment in front & trying hopefully (for you) to hold me for a new detainment
and i ain't having it, ms police person
so w/ur permission i will rest my case, take the crazy card & swipe it thru the keyfobesque and exeunt this space station as if gamely pursued by a space bear
i assume you have ursine suits i can use to complete the amusing departure
should i sign any papers?
oh, sorry, but not as an autograph, only official shit plz
that's the last thing i need right now, people thinking that i bribed u w/my John Hancock
you hear about Jimmy Frisbie?
presumptive heir to the Ham-O disc empire
and a killer southpaw flick as well
near-singlehandedly led his team—
E: excuse me
P: ya what's up pat
don't worry, i'll finish my story in just a sec
by the way, can i call you Pat?
E: um
P: i know it says Patricia on the nameplate but i just feel we're too damn chummy now to not use best epithetical practice
please, call me dex
E: we're not going to do this
P: think about how much time we would save as a species if we could just call each other by their first name
E: you cannot speak to me like that
P: excuse me? why not?
E: i am a warden of the law and i demand your respect
P: well sure you can have it
i don't have much need for it anymore
do you know where the nearest window might be?
actually, never mind; i think i'll just use the door
i can see myself out, don't you worry

[he lights the pack of cigarettes entire in his hand
w/ a match hidden behind his ear
throws it down
and disappears, fleeing backwards, 
screened by the smoke of the resultant fire]

[meanwhile p. safe lunges toward the escapee 
but is stopped by the cloud
starts hacking up a lung
damned tar particles
and is forced to resign her quest quickly]

K: she can only watch and cough real chagrined from a distance 
as lil dex makes his break for the exit too swiftly for her to begin to call in any assistance
he is long gone by the time she stops spitting ash
she begrudges his too fast actions and his darkest of fashions
which together w/his natural blackness make it hard for her to ID him
the mint is acrid in her mouth & his alacrity astounded her
she vows
E: to find out just who that rapscallion were
er
was
K: now the jasmine gives a buzz upon her tongue
and there are bees within her head
and she is wondering if only those two herbs were in that bunch of cigarettes
she ponders, sudden stony woman thinking thoughts that just escape her pebbly neural grasp
E: is that the kid who cuts the grass
outside the hawt police department?
K: she tries to find his face within her brain
but inky tendrils bleed rorschachs into each other
& blurring pictures circle twirl out saliency's drain
she wonders if
E: this is what it feels like to go insane
temporarily, at least
K: for she knows at the very forefront of her cortex
it won't last forever
that she'll survive the bout w/ madness and recover
no KO for her today; she'll be okay
and as relief sets in and she tries to sit down
tries to contemplate it, really
E: what does sitting down, like, really mean?
& in that little instant of über-thick thinks
she realizes
E: i'm forgetting to account for the knockout potential of gravity
in a blink it quick hits me
shit, what is this sudden waving
K: at the same time simultaneous another flash of understanding rolls in
E: i know just where i've heard that kid's name before; it was that frisbee tourney
no; or was it
K: but before the thought resolves she is recumbent on the ground 
exploring gravel patterns, crawling hands and feet and knees and 'bows round the very spot she just told dex explicitly no to being in
brief last reaction before she loses track of having limbs and nerves at all
E: why are these macadam pieces so small?

charlotte m friendly @ BoT meeting (JUN -71 P.A.)

CMF paces, wolfishly impatient, before the hydran mass of elders: the Board of Trustees
they are legion and ancient but a queer light shines in their eyes
more than just the projector's reflection thru their bifocals
the BoT knows more than it is collectively letting on
CMF paces, tigress oblivious to that outside her own stripey head
an old woman toward the back of the clump licks her lips once
the .pptx swirls softly behind her (CMF)
she looks up and smiles, too wide and too bright her teeth shine
the meeting is underway

C: honored members of the board
as you know
this school's not so fiduciarily hot right now
unfortunate things, this economy does to people
not in dire straits per se quite yet
but we're getting there
the digital bean counters crunched the numbers
ran the algorithms
found out future-looking what our biggest drawbacks are
and the data were very clear; the graphs were unanimous
our major problem 
how do i put this
it's more or less our students
specifically w/r/t the things that they do
that they know that they shouldn't
B: no shit; those damn meddlesome kids keep our insurance thru the roof
C: among other places it or they should not end up
there's also been a solid realization among the faculty 
B: so what are you suggesting?
C: well long term we should get better students
but meantime in between now and then i suggest we try & improve the ones we have
make them become some versions better of themselves than they are at the moment
without being realized in our honing of their unshittiness
specifically we'll focus them on aspects that code for lucrative achievements on our end
combine our cheeky insights with a lil guidance in a way that they can't find us out for being the thing guiding their new kind of being
B: this sounds like bullshit
like what, do you suggest secret dream therapy?
C: in a manner of speaking;
oneiricity is implicit to the practices in theory
but for us we'll choose for it to be more subtlety used
than jumping into induced lucid dreams, Inception-esque—no,
not today is that angle at play
in this case in particular the tact will be one of newly unabused approaches
something that will offer a XXI c. spin on an age-old dilemma
viz. the torrid system accompaniant to childhood's end
cherished members of the board, may i present to thee the first installment in the latest effort to combat stupidity: mechanical psychiatry
it's a robot you talk to and it tells you how to be a better you, see
runs your wants and whims thru a better algorithm
churns out answers rigorously to your emotional queries
don't ask how
let's just say we found a manual that's helped us along in figuring out
good monsieurs and madams i truly think this is the grandest answer to our darn dilemma
these kids don't listen to us; no longer as an adult voice do we hold their trust
but the thing that they swing to electrickly is AI, OK?
B: hold up;
so you say, what, that we commit our resources more fully to a blinking screen than any form of meaningful interaction
C: well that's the thing, sir, with all due respect to your analog roots 
in the digital age these do constitute meaningful truths 
if they come from a screen that they want to believe
these youth are crazy, don't you know
just like every group of kids that've come before
B: and just how do we achieve that
C: like this:
attach to their parents first
send a packet to prospective first-years' home address informing mom & dad that their children've been pre-selected to be in a genius pilot program
setting forth a bunch of rubrics and schematics and be clear in outlining our electronic tactics
state the facts: your children do receive
no—are granted
no—are lucky to be selected for this prestigious special offering
phrase the framing as a gift
this will raise your kids
no—lift them to an unprecedented viewing point and gift unique opportunities to work alone & jointly
greatness waits for you, ways off but do know that the point be there
welcome to YPI
etc., etc., and maybe six weeks after they are sent i bet you three months' endowment that we'll get a record level of interest
it'll come off as a novel-for-novel's-sake idea—people go crazy for that shit
early adopters and helicopter parents alike will cry out for it
we can throw some jargon on it 
call it: Turing Time
B: we don't get it
C: ya, i agree; the name's kind of irrelevant
but the important clauses will be hidden deep within the contracts:
releasing all their relevant data to us, from any 'base to which we can get
importantly signing them up for mandatory interviewing sessions
them and a monitor
before which they'll type on a keyboard all the secrets they can care for
just them, and a far-off psychiatric interviewer, they'll think
but we'll be watching, accorded to do so by the paperwork their guardians signed
given first-hand front-row seats into their minds
and cheat sheets for all the shitty things they'll try to do over time
not only that, but i think we can pre-empt any crimes they may aim to accomplish
all it takes is a large-scale deep-seeded data harvest
so we'll need to upgrade our server farms to handle all the number crunching
and install a Trojan keylogger over the wifi system
and initiate random screencaps to compile and be parsed w/in the mainframe
and of course—
B: ms friendly if we may be quite blunt this sounds like a knockoff of Minority Report
C: well yes, at first, it'll be limited to last-minute responses
but over a period of long enough time, we'll be ahead by far enough to actually inoculate them socially
sculpt their behavior how we'd like them to be
take on fully our role as educators and lead these kids into the kind of society we'd like them to be
we are foolproofing the state of our university
can't you see? the digital age will prove the saving grace of higher education
we can now spread our politics like every other kind of information
use the internet to facilitate a multi-modal promulgation 
of our corporate vision, filled with responsible kids
even before they arrive on campus, we can start the process of adjusting them to preference
toning down their shitty tendencies
culling what behavior doesn't really fit us
and it's all done via the web, i.e. v surreptitiously
B: what does v mean
C: very
B: we're not sure we're quite sold
C: here's our first year projected budget report
to put it briefly, it's very close to dirt cheaply to be done
[the BoT picks up the packet, pages thru it uber-quickly
like a phi phenomenal inductive flipbook would be read
maybe the budget is all pictures? hard to tell from this angle
BoT puts it back down]
B: we are onboard
congratulations ms friendly
you may be the first president in sixty years to bring us an idea
that we don't actually actively hate
C: i am flattered by your kind words
but am simply happy to be serving
all hail highest ed 
B: amen; may it never die
[CMF reaches 'cross the table w/extended hand
the BoT rises as one to greet her, arms outstretched back
reaching toward each other, the bodies en masse begin to shake
writhing, pseudo-Dionysian ecstasies against one another rubbing
all manner of limbs and dress shirts and pantsuits flailing, touching
the table breaks under the weight; the mass collapses, still dry-f%č$ing
the lights go out save a spot above the table/people scraps that in stark white 1200 lux
(reflecting at least 9000 nits)
captures the rat king as its loudest moment of passion starts happening
which could entail a lot of things, to be left to the descriptive imagination
it is an uncomfortably long moment for those watching, that's for sure]