Linearity is discouraged.
After an immersion in Slow Living, by Kenyatta JP Garcia, from West Vine Press
By Notty Bumbo
How he said it. How it got here, gets here, sends messages, goes sideways, across time and back, bounces history across personal synapses. This is a work unfolding, a journey despite its most ardent desire to locate a fixed point from which to observe, debate, break open anything within view or hidden behind unreason. From the Greeks to the Geeks, a brief mention of (the first) Hannibal, and never depositing two hundred dollars, Kenyatta goes and goes, his prose opposes fixed coordinates, this/these poems unfolding origami-like before the limits of understanding. A diary of mad fun and sullen rectitude, careening around my skull in philosophical glee. I suspect “JP” means Jet Propelled, or Just Perusing, or Jamming Profundity. I give this book an easy ninety-nine with a bullet– you can dance to it, all right, all night, outta sight!
Been rubbernecking. Keeping an eye out for where time took an odd moment to add an extra scar to the road.
The last ditch that took some effort to carve. To assure a certain waylay for someone just needing to get away.
The truth for all its power sets everybody else free but itself. Instead chooses transformation. Settles for concealment. To be protected from witnessing itself.
Can’t turn my back on myself but my back also won’t look me in my face so what good’s a back anyway? If it didn’t come with the body why would anyone even bother having one?
The faults furthered the cause of the tectonic shifts. Line breaks will always be a part of this world. Each side is a stanza. The earth quakes suddenly understanding another version needs to take place. This place.
steel and superpowers.
we been magical
but sorcercery hasn’t been enough.
oh lawd, can a nigga get a force field!
let’s talk that real pillow talk
holding onto hope
when thoughts and prayers have failed
let’s snuggle up into cybernetic fantasies of nanotech
smarter than the biology of fingers
and tin of badges
oh jesus, how much stronger we got to get?
whom does the singularity include?
why couldn’t creation have just been a myth?
electric memories keep eyes lit
all night long computing
while chains keep bodies in place,
while cells provide shelter
when the streets fill up with the phobia generations in the making.
so long in the making time travel has more dangers
than the edge of the universe.
send thoughts and prayers to parallel dimensions.
maybe they’ll be of some use there.
maybe the horizon holds another event
the roads of this dystopia
have yet to find.
what good are the pistons without the gas and the grease?
what’s a mission mean
as acid rain tears at the hood
revealing rust and the algorithms
of a nation
forcing you to drive onward?
what else is there when only space seems safe?
when to leave is the best defense?
because to stay is conflict.
everyday is a casualty.
the struggle is actually an assault.
“heaven’s gate whines out opening up for all the tears of boys who were told not to cry. for all the girls abducted from their potential. for all the others forever denied. for zombies whiter than snow. for ghosts much the same. for corpses blackening in decay. for limbs much the same as gangrene sets in. for sun unable to melt the cities back to the bone of streets. for long winds sweeping out the corners of the neighborhoods. for the hillsides with a view of the comings and goings of paradise.”