Something broke.
There are of course connections that imply a verifiable cosmology, a totality of phenomena constituting all of time and space. Beyond theoretical physics, string theory and the anthropic principle, there is a fundamental symmetry to existence that is better described through a defined set of characteristics in the known megaverse embodied in the form of a particular set of children born in the summer and autumn of the second year of the third millennium.
David Smith Jennings died an old man in the far, far future.
Antonia Cervera was shot and killed by David Smith Jennings in Wind River, D.C..
Abrah Allen-Kennedy was killed in the Quebecois nuclear attack on Washington, D.C.
Buddy McClure broke his neck and drowned on the bottom of Lake Superior.
Hank the Cowboy was cancelled.
Honeybear Brown lives on, under the couch.
James Richter went into the future to find
AMONG THE LIVING
was never known to command respect from his peers was known to steal his fourteen minutes in fragments was known to sometimes allow ashes to burn on his forearms and face while waiting patiently for them to gutter out because at least it was something nearing proof that he was there at all
was never known to entertain such revolutions but the autopsy was inconclusive as to when and why he chose to enact such validity [then strike in my name; these are mine to erase.] on histories [if the self is defined as
[/there is nothing left to enlighten
wished he’d sky-wide hands with which to grasp the world; such moss, the old-growth, teardrops of ocean: the cellular towers would embed themselves in his palm like fiberglass dust as he squeezed a little too long, a little too hard, neither burned nor blistered by the lukewarm blood.
considered himself an aggressive driver considered himself a philosopher, a deep thinker, an author behind the wheel considered his thoughts the best when thought while driving, while wrapped within a ton or two of green Ford, tan interior so aligned with the subtleties of his landship that once just north of the Mexico exit when the number two cylinder coil blew and his truck resonated new harmonics across grinding metal, he promptly took the exit, checked the oil, and turned around to home because his father had once fixed airplanes in a life younger than his own.
defined himself in histories of who started hating him when. [the places between stasis are horror.]
was known to accelerate into curves accelerate into downslopes into relationships was known to fear braking.
learned eventually learned early learned a little too late that locating his happiness within the broken puzzle pieces gifted in the hope of finding purchase in the segment he’d long ago torn from his own viscera only forced the disbelief of soulmates and wondered him wandering in search of so much more than this.
he’d invented his own mathematics to explain absolutely nothing.
wished he’d a sky-wide heart with which to love the world: [the world, to him, was always internal, never and he’d hate cities for reasons.
sometimes pretended he could poetry, sometimes neglected the laws that fed him, always hated womyn, always hated person’s who couldn’t tell the different between websters plurals and possessives.
if it were possible, he’d use subjunctive.
if it were possible, he’d trade his ability to dream.
found inspiration at speeds above legal, at acceleration, at speeds in alternate states: [New York drivers are so…aggressive.] found something comforting in riding the edge, the rumble strips calling out, dead deer
at what point does animal
become meat
become carrion? once took a mislabeled hamburger from the dining hall heatlamp to find portobello: wondered then if that was the taste of coffins, memorials, garroted friends. he’d spit out the first bite, but took so many more after the voices.
how much now is left of you? the sickly fascination with unstrung vocal chords, rotted through, never again to sing.
was once so twice so always so enamored by speed and swerves that the rearview mirror delighted hindsight with the dopplered impact of an orange construction barrel. water.
was known to pick targets when boxed in by tractor trailers when the median gave chance for a head-on collision. drove like he didn’t care to survive.
bumper stickers warned innocents.
an army seven-million strong by the time he was ready would be nice if once just once or twice we could stop hating each other so much to honor that time and maybe it’s not really hate but a succession of days spent wondering through desert life at stars at breath my decision of each inhalation tempered now with the surrenders inherent to each departure: i must hate you. i must unlove you unseat you from this tangent, exponentially tangential, scattershot into futures apart.
was unknown in brevity, famous in obsession and little else.
multitasked his path to mediocrity: books, pages, digitally-versatile stubbornness borne on [did you know he was actually allergic to donkeys?]
i don’t know who i am anymore.
never tried a drug he didn’t fear, never didn’t fear You, that base addiction concreted, secreted in a night that he put his hand over your mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t bitch. knew then that your flicking tongue tasted yourself on his palm from cupped foreplay: [this isn’t cheating; this is friendship: beneficently extended.]
synesthetic in that he could hear your smile, taste your release. synesthetic in that he could live the shadows of you and die each time he felt for your heart-beats.
ate aspirin like breath mints.
hostaged himself to yesterdays. to three-times-nine, to fourteen-seven: to morning, afternoon, evening and night smoke.
once considered working on a bison farm because “artists” need real “jobs” to pay for cable.
[your dark exterior masks a caffeine-driven activism/] [you’ll take up a cause and you’ll get ugly to advance it/]
thought that maybe if he smiled hard enough, long enough, his face would stick that way [such childhood threats only work for negatives] [and no one would know].
realized long after they’d left that they were gone
long before they’d left.
stole poetry from his inbox:
Under the cheese, reconciles a breezy stain. Dresses by drugs, transmutates the acorn to guy. Ruined by chariots, wipes the light to guest. Transmutating, saying, transmutating, writing, stepping. Counter had a spill, which was not at all a gut. Tells cowardly, wordlessly, like keys yelling, allegedly. Seasons like rocks go slyly but angrily.
lonely man: suspensory particularist falconine boil lonely euangiotic
lonely man: wondered exactly when the future became a time when scambots used “euangiotic” to market cum-guzzling tranny vids and bigger dick pills [ripper cun7 open 2nite] and the. lowest. mortgage. rates. ever.
was never particularly falconine.
synesthetic in that the point is, i forgive you.
synesthetic in that he never wanted an acknowledgement, just silences
the suicide watch was long over, the july phone call of an angry father and halfhearted attempts to convince him he wouldn’t walk off the roof.
sometimes swerved into traffic. sometimes ran into snowbanks on purpose. sometimes pretended he wasn’t home.
the catalytic reaction of palm to palm, palm to breast, wondering which geography hearts learn first.
his madness taught him that tinnitus ringing through from first memories sang a perfect constant note, an S note, inextricable from musics that dredged and driver units, fifty millimeters spanning twenty- five thousand hertz were the most convincing evidence that he wasn’t in fact indistinguishable from god.