Computer Brain
easy digital head
upgrade tech for hard
sinister humanoid
video content
Let Freedom Ring
Let it ring so loud
It bursts the sound barrier
That it reverberates back to a time when
It was okay to disagree without being seen as a threat
Where freedom of speech was free
Where you could vote an absentee ballot without being accused of election fraud
Let Freedom Ring
For All Americans
Not just the 1% – the haves, while
The 99% bare the burden and suffer the haves
A few years ago, was the 60th Anniversary of Dr. King’s march on Frankfort
We united as one, noting how far we’d come, but
Acknowledged, we still had work to do
I sit here confused
In shock
As I witness our forward motion,
Momentum
Halted and reversed
Freedoms being reduced and
Removed
invaded my life in every unbearable way,
beyond tapeworm and cavities
beyond broken hands and migraines
you were a part of me
and you shouldn’t have been
i loved you without realizing
lived with you without realizing
and suffered before realizing
now i struggle to sit across from you
at poker, at Cheddar’s, my mom’s house
but there you stay
so here i stay
god grant me
the serenity to change the things
i can’t
i’ve tried the
acceptance
and all the other
grief stages
that come before it
and none of it has worked so far
i’ve lived one day
at a time
and accepted
my hardships
but still
it’s all stayed the
same
Glenn
Glenn was 12 years old
when his appendix burst
and he died
on the operating table.
^
^ I never met him.
I was in the fourth grade
I remember standing outside,
watching Dad
^
^ drive up the gravel road,
headed to his sister’s house
in Ohio,
for the funeral.
^
^ He was gone three,
four,
or five days.
I can’t remember.
I stepped onto the wet grass. My bare feet felt so strange,
but good, I mean, and familiar. Then a picture as clear as glass
in a freshly washed window appeared in my mind’s eye, and
I had to stand perfectly still to resist the urge to step into it.
There I saw myself, just a girl with braids wrapped around her head,
dressed in calico with ruffles of sort and rough worn sandles on her feet.
I saw myself slip the sandals off my feet and step into the deep grass.
My own face brightened and I could hear laughter and I remembered.
I remembered how much I loved the feel of wet grass
on my feet.
If I were to crack
open a fortune cookie
right now, it might read,
“Anger without object is
a vomit stain on carpet.”
Is there a term for when you narrate and critique
your own weird lucid dream as it premiers
in the theater of your sleeping mind?
I suppose my subconscious chose him because I admire his writing
or because he seems warm and approachable at local events;
he definitely wasn’t typecast.
I realize he has friends who may read this and share it,
which would be a little embarrassing for me,
but, I suspect, pretty entertaining for him.
When Dream Silas offered me the cocaine
(possibly heroin- that’s snortable, yes?) he was being quite
pushy, actually. Uncharacteristically snobby and aggressive.
What bothers me most is that I felt the need to explain (?)
Oh I shouldn’t; I have to get up at 5:00 AM on school days,
I have kids in my face at 7:15, can you believe?
I tried to side coach myself: Just say, No thanks, I don’t do hard drugs, Silas.
I don’t even know you very well. Or where you procured this angel dust
(wait- is that PCP, the one that makes people fight like they can’t feel pain?).
I whispered into my headset to whomever was on the other end,
Who wrote this? Absurd! What -she can’t have freedom or creative energy
when she’s exhausted from her job? Oh…
Dear God,
This was definitely a good one
the sun. the breeze. the clouds
all added up to the sort of day they make postcards about
the meals. the naps. the kisses
pre-, mid-, and post-coital blisses with the one you made me for
Oh please may we pass safely through the night,
in the heavenly hopes of more days like this good one we made
