ambulant

perturb

that follows

in the moment

and aftermath

the mind takes off

like a straight

jacket

or halter

on a siren

the more it thinks

the tighter it seems

the more it takes

to fall through

the sieve

and then

at every station

tests of dynamics

change of pressure

and flow

ears pop

listening

for a pulse

at the wrist

watch

09.15.2024

Turbulence challenge @Last

In isolation

it is They.

They the scattered

puzzle's parts

that lay

obscuring one

another overturned

upside down, sideways

in glances

a mess

we'd say.

Catching a glass

reflection

the taste bitter

pleasant, ruddy.

I deserve that reprimand

burning my tongue.

The tableau idyllic,

full cups, steaming

no piece missing

the scene.

Only people.

My mouth is bitter. Tongue toeing with carbonation.

My mouth breaks- barely. Lips parting, a sigh like a drop of rain on my heated flesh.

I swallow, when the kid im watching barrels onto me. I wonder if you watch me too-

but I wrap the kid at my hip in a hug, blissfully unaware for a moment.

But I feel you there- on my perifpheri. I hope you like the vision;

me busying around a dozen kids- easily handling them all.

I will always have one on my hip.

I don't know if you're still watching- I hope I have enough time.

To make my case. To be too sweet. But you're gone when I glance back.

I swallow, and double my efforts on the swing, pretending it doesn't bother me.

I wish you saw, long enough to long.

dropped

the keys

to the Largo

at the high bar

had to refuel

and the waitstaff

had a nice smile

clicking the notepad

with French manicure

checking her feet,

matching Pedi, too

anything special?

in appropriate drawl

as false lashes drew

attention to the list

on the wall

stuck to my metal

swiveling chair

and shook, no

that's not me

something plain?

well then

she added

off the wall

we, still, have

that pink

lemonade

09.13.2024

"Damn you Peter Pan!" He said to himself, recalling a line from his favorite contraband kid's movie that he often used, with great versatility, to express anything ranging from intense frustration, to contemplation, to comic amusement. The aforementioned movie is not a Kaizenstani movie; no, in fact it is very much a movie by its arch nemesis nation, hence its status as contraband. He found all contraband fascinating and much of it enjoyable, even kids' movies, but there was nothing lighthearted about the use of this expression right now. This time he was up shitcreek. You see, at this particular moment Otto found himself staring, beads of sweat dripping from his temple, at a nearly hopeless situation. Queen pinned, both Bishops lost; what hope he had of attaining fatherhood seemed to be very much slipping away. Tentatively he moved his remaining Rook into a position that he hoped rather than thought might be of some use to him and then shot a glance at his opponent whose expression seemed calm yet eager to capitalize on another bad move. “Damn you peter pan…” he whispered softly to himself. Why the hell was he so bad at this game he wondered? Truthfully speaking, by international standards at least, Otto was quite the pro. You see, Kaizenstani boys are trained and primed from a young age to be good, nay, exceptional, at the regal game. One thing each and every Kaizenstani boy has in common is that, at what often amounted to the most critical moment of his life, his father had won a game of Chess. Attainment of coveted Kaizenstani Lordship was not possible without it, and reproductive licenses were not granted to proles. Prole! Oh, what an indignity! It wasn’t really, of course, considering both that it constituted the overwhelming majority of the adult male population and that the economic services Proles provided to the Kaizenstani nation were indispensable to its continuity and relevance. Still, Otto, like most other Kaizenstani boys, had aspirations to a more dignified life than that of a Prole. His contemplations were interrupted by the word he dreaded to hear, “Checkmate.” As if disconnected from reality, in stunned robotic silence he stood up, looked into the eyes, and shook the hand of his opponent, whose expression was a combination of deep relief and sincere contrite; relief at having survived apart of the challenge that could soon accomplish him the status of his father, and contrite at having severed forever, from a man whom he held no ill will towards, the hope and ambition he understood as intimately as every Kaizenstani boy.

Otto felt sick to his stomach as he began the seemingly long but actually short walk to the nearby status issuing administration counter to formally be recorded on the Kaizenstani Citizen Census as a “Prole” and receive the associated identification. The counters would remain staffed all day and it was standard process for the losers to take a spot in a line after their game has ended; to Otto it seemed a remarkably streamlined and unceremonious process for the gravity of the situation. Still, he could appreciate that the annual contest was such an enormous event that the process could not, for practicality’s sake, stand on ceremony, and really needed to be streamlined. Auditoriums, schools, gymnasiums, country clubs, even parks and golf courses(weather permitting), and indeed anything that could be temporarily repurposed for the occasion were used. Hordes of bureaucrats were brought in whose job was the simple and impersonal task of filing the paperwork and issuing the identifications that would indelibly impact the lives of thousands upon thousands of young men. As Otto waited for his turn with the bureaucrat servicing his line he wondered if the staffers at the Lordship counters were possibly more jovial, if the position was coveted; perhaps it was a tenure thing and the more senior bureaucrats got the privilege of filling out paperwork for the incoming Lords. The bureaucrats themselves are Proles; perhaps that was a job he might be interested in. Of course career paths for Proles were determined by the P.O.A.T.(Prole Occupational Aptitude Test) and it wasn’t really up to him anyway. As the fellow in front of him was called to the counter, Otto realized that these thoughts had been a distraction tactic to avoid emotionally processing the crushing blow of his failure; at least he was able to maintain his composure. Finally, it was his turn to dutifully answer the disinterested questions of the bureaucrat processing his paperwork; after doing so he was issued his identification papers and directed to one of the many tents setup not far away. As apprehensive as he was about the surgery, he had prepared for this eventuality. While hopeful that he would both checkmate his opponent and go the distance in the boxing ring, Otto appreciated going into the contest the possibility that exists as an insecurity residing in the deepest recesses of all Kaizenstani boys and adolescents, that his best might not be good enough. Still, the thought of getting his scrotum sliced open and… whatever else they did, made him feel less prepared than he previously imagined he would be. The self-assurances he had been told and kept repeating to himself about it being a routine operation with virtually no complications was not as reassuring as he had hoped it would be. Despite these concerns the operation, seemingly, went smoothly, and his balls remained in the same sack they had always been in. Although he wasn’t feeling “normal” down there by any stretch, he was walking out of the tent the same way he had observed while in line the others who had left. Otto proceeded to the final stage of his formal transformation into a Prole, the personal processing of the implications thereof would have to wait, into yet another line. Apparently sensitive to the ordeal of the slicings, this line came with the courtesy of chairs. Presenting the paperwork the doctor who performed the operation instructed him to hand over as proof of having received the vasectomy and of being in good health(meaning able to stand on two feet and no apparent gangrene) he was issued the two allowance tickets reserved exclusively for the privilege of Proles; one was a weekly brothel pass and the other a weekly alcohol allotment. These were the two slips of paper he had dreaded from a young age to ever hold in his hands and now that they were he didn’t know what to think, so he decided not to. He’d think about that later. All he had to do at this moment was make his way back to one of the buses that had been appropriated for the event that brought him to the contest, a contest held at the convention center where he played his first(and last) game of Chess.

Summer is like pink lemonade. Yes, I have just compared a drink to summer. No, I am not weird. pink lemonade can be sour or tasteless like some dull long humid days in the summer in which you wish school would just begin so you would be occupied, but of course when this action came into play you would be sincerely dreading your thoughts because school was dreadful and awfully dull in your opinion. This drink can also be too sweet the taste is overpowering and strong, like when you do entertaining things to often in summer that it begins to become a routine a drawl on slowly like a slug slowly inching to his goal. When your cup of pink lemonade has the perfect ratio of sweetness, tartness and taste you have had an exceptional summer day, with the perfect balance of every single ingredient. So, remember next time you are at the grocery store or making a decision pick the right pink lemonade.

The Wurundjeri walked where the Yarra flowed

And the Yarra Yarra tribe too

Memories of Barak last chief of the Yarra Yarra tribe

Mostly forgotten in fragments

The same river though

The same river

The same river though

Wurundjeri Yarra Yarra tribe

I am young in this old world

It looks at me curiously like I just landed

I cannot bear to think it existed without me

my booster pack ran out of juice

the trees sway in the breeze

I etch another notch on my bench

Amazing how nature sits still

while spinning past my light

I do care

even when I fail to look up

It hurts not to sing my song so true

Give me a chance

to heal my will

They call me the ghost of the forest

Clad in brown and black

Expelled from my house

Corey is my name

I cleanse the woods of a dormant evil

Yet nobody sees my efforts

As I protect my people

Without being one of them

As I wander this cold, forlorn land

I spill my life onto the soil

Leaving behind an ashen trail