open/a_failed_experiment.md
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## a failed experiment
There exists a person
who is certain that this experiment
is a failure.
This person is busy prepping for
the time when this experiment finally
shows itself for what it is.
This person is hording and stocking
cans and seeds and weapons as protection
against the eventual failure of
this experiment.
This person is reading, reverberating,
inoculating themselves against the slow drip
media of this experiment.
This person has no faith in the rightness
of this experiment.
This person sees tyranny and oppression and
mindless greed as the obvious outcome of
this experiment.
This person is a manifestation of the
inebreiated ego too drunk to sublimate the
dark fantasy and violent impulse that threatens
this experiment.
open/a_long_division.md
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## a long division
I stood before the sliding glass looking
out and over the manufactured pink
of a crayon colored number two, past
the weathered wooden deck and into the
fenced stillness of a winter-gray morning.
Color, sleeping since fall, made it's stand
against the season in the bright yellow
plastic and chains of a wooden playset
unused yet swinging in invisible
wind where the lot stopped and the field began.
The new year had come and brought with it the
things that new years bring–new books new money
new television new recordings of
new people with new and rambling lists of
things to do or never to do again.
(Insert stanza dealing with contentment)
Yet there in the kitchen before breakfast
with morning spilling through me note by note
I could feel some forked version of myself
whose thought though distant still twisted in mine
like white milk swirling in dark black coffee.
As I was looking forward to the new
year here was some version of me perhaps
some shadow of the person I used to
want to be lingering in a soft-boiled
fog of memory and thought and dream like
a fault in time both present and remote.
SCRAPS----->
The two of us stood there
looking out through sliding glass
only just now becoming aware
of each other.
We lived two of many worlds
impossible and unknowable
and cosmically remote. Yet we were
THERE(|) together alone with only images
for communication. Impressions,
a shared qualia
so fine
so particular
yet not necessarily solitary
a current along some unidentifiable field.
The coffee was ready.
One drip, one press
one dark, one blonde
one mug, one cup
one milk
one sugar.
open/a_meditation.md
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## a meditation opens
**December 21, 2012 2:19 PM**
Something keeps telling me I need to meditate.
Something inside me, some need to
> defend myself against the
> rough and mean spirits
> of a hard-lined, hard-hearted
> socio-cultural malaise.
Something keeps telling me I need to meditate.
Something without me, some lost and
> wandering window of
> time spread out against
> itself like an old master
> a poem of tired retreat.
Something keeps telling me I need to meditate.
open/bukowski_spins.md
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## Bukowski spins
"Food to share"
A warm and inviting sentiment
painted white across a green wooden
box, weathered by time and and chipped by
soil, reaches out from a feed numbed
by the callow perhaps offensive notion
that a poet's words are less than art;
less than the opening to this or that world;
less than the sigils and sounds and syllables
of pain bleeding through alcoholic reality.
"Bukowski!" they yell.
Bukowski had a secret and we can use
it to write better copy to sell more
useless shit to people who might have
been better off if we dropped the content
and dropped the marketing and just spoke
through virgin words without concern for the dollar.
"Bukowski!" again.
You see, it's all about the line.
So what if his line was something of a switchblade;
sharp and hidden and lethal to the fat belly of
low-level, fast-food, high fructose content hacks.
There is something in his approach that we can use to
sell this thing that nobody anywhere will ever really need.
"Food to share"
Grown and given for no other reason
than the rightness of feeding each other.
At human scale, face to face, food is poetry.
But here in RSS the poetics of organic
produce grind against the syndicated feed
of bitter and lonely sales messages.
And though we feel informed we still
starve for the simple truth that only
the living, breathing, teaming soil can provide.
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open/notes_on_craft.md
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## Notes on craft (and Kraft)
Super-efficient lollipop machined to
the end of bleached white stick,
Wrapped in and out with an orange
glow that feels outside of natural.
**marginal food**
**almost edible**
**dyspeptic and heartless it dominates through some unknowable magic**
…no, fuck that. i know the magic.
it's [Bernays' sauce](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Bernays).
it's the factory, {the machine}, the automatic
wind of mass production that seeps itself
in a cloud, as a datapoint, as an enumerated
step on a list where this happens then that.
it's the store, {the product}, the sweet
need for inclusion planted in the air
conditioned subconscious and shielded from
the growing heat by your American shopping malls.
yes, it's the sweet need for inclusion.
(Somewhere in this process is the thing)
(that makes us all human again.)
(Some slow familiar foam bubbles in the)
(gaslit boroughs of the ego branded city.)