Remember


remember that one time? how long ago was it? probably too long ago to be vivid anymore. that’s how it goes. that’s how it went. maybe. memory is speculative at best. the past is always so long ago even if it was only recently past. and the vivid leaves as soon as the experience does.

so it’s a vague life living on a collection of incorrect coincidences being most inopportune at the time when time was without time for further consultation.

but something else is coming up anyway and who knows if it’ll be a major life event or if it’ll kill you but watch out for the updates. watch and try to make it vivid. add color where the future is bi-chromatic if able to be seen at all.
*
and when there was a loss for words what was really gone?

one time there was a chance to say something about that one time but the time has passed. the moment is dead, gone, buried in memories.

and when there was hell to pay, about how much did that cost? what currency was exchanged? what was the charge for? will the debt be carried over into the afterlife?
*
yesterday it was easy to assume the routine would be the same and it is so there’s that.

for better or worse is no better nor any worse than same old same old and the yeah yeah responses to be returned without so much as a concerned look attached to a face fast set to depart.
*
but then again there was that one time, you remember, that one time when it was within reach. when what was had wasn’t good enough and there wasn’t a reason to settle for less than what might be. you remember? it’s memorable even if it was only that one time.
*
took out a loan for another time. calculated and counted on hope but you wouldn’t cosign. maybe it was for the best. could be for the worst. who knows? what’s there to compare it to? what’s a comparison worth anyway?
*
who’s been more often read than whoever wrote home sweet home in latch-hook? and when there’s no place like home what does that mean for the rest of the world? oh, and to retreat a bit, the author of ‘welcome’ must have trillions of views by now standing on the stoop with salt on boots eager for a drink and some goddamn sympathy for once.

hell, life isn’t easy. take it from somebody who’s been out there and in here actually living almost every day for decades. living and remembering. remembering and trying to find something to focus on but always coming away from feeling sorry. feeling and then being. just once, can somebody else be sorry for a second? it’s been a series of apologies for longer than should be remembered but they always add form to the vagaries of yesterday. whenever that yesterday was without a shape to fill space but gaseous enough to make do. to make us feel full. to make us be full enough for the moment.
*
whatever words were said it’s up for debate now. watershed moments are lighthouses to avoid in the dark when those waves of other days come back. when a respite is not all it needs to be.
it’s what it was then it’ll be what it will be. what it’ll never be is what it is. to be current is to be a conversation. something a word might change.

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First Review of Slow Living by Notty Bumbo


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!

Take Place


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.

New Work at Anti-Heroin Chic


New Work in Anti-Heroin Chic

“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.”

Read the whole piece at: Anti-Heroin Chic

New Work in Inferior Planets


New Work in Inferior Planets

“when I say we sometimes I mean I and the voices I’ve heard or the voices I’m searching for. and sometimes when I say us, you can join in. and sometimes when I say you, I can’t imagine who I’m thinking of. and sometimes when I say they, it’s about me. and sometimes when they don’t like it, I revert back to I and start again.”

Read the rest here: http://inferiorplanets.com/issue1/2016/02/10/garcia/

Now And Again


Our heart. Yes, ours. If only ever. What a want to share one with someone/everyone else.

 

All is lost but we’ll find it again. I promise if you promise too.

*

I’ll never wish for sleep. I only ever want to be awake. I don’t want to miss a minute of when things get good. Get great. Become what they could always have been.

I wan to witness equality. All I need to see is consistency then I can rest in peace.

*

I’m trying to keep a little laughter in me but it’s getting hard to do. Somebody told me what to do. Dig into your half of a heart and give me some sound advice. A sound. A lyric to sing to myself when I’m feeling lonely. A verse to hold onto for the uphills when my legs are burning. Give me the song that’ll have me begging to meet the sirens. The sirens here to help us. The sounds of emergencies averted. The sound of a miracle worker’s footfall.

*

Justice isn’t blind. It’s bound and gagged and I don’t know who’s getting off but I know it didn’t come cheap.

*

Don’t trust me with your money I’ll bet the house on us. We have to win. We didn’t come this far to lose even if we’re losing now. Now and again.

At/HERE


New Year’s resolution –
stop talking to yourself.
*
I have no promises to keep.

So it seems, good sense only goes so far as genius allows. As one grows increasingly informed, the desire becomes to lose commonality and the sensibility which accompanies it. What good is a sense if it is only used for good? Give me a sense which brings a sensation – hand on stove, fall from heights. Excitement in known harm but unknown consequences doled out by nature.
*
What I wanted was not really to be alone but to be head over heels over someone. Someplace for emotions to go. I’m ambitious that way.
*
Who will concur while I wait? Without a fever for the infirmary. Without need for quarantine, who else will be here to hear?
*
I don’t like ‘cool.’ I don’t like ‘beautiful.’ I don’t like. I just don’t like. Let me love something indefinable for once. Let me hate. Leave me the freedom to go beyond dislike to the extremist position against certain notions. Let me have floors and ceilings in this room. Leave my food by the door. I’ll swallow it when it cools off a bit.
*
In solitude, I take even the public rather personally. Get offended or let joy arise from those passing by.
*
Consequences are irrelevant to cruelty.
*
Am I guilty of or for irony? What liberty, what power in producing, being, becoming another ending – only somewhat unexpected. Because, who doesn’t account for the curse of the paradox?
*
I am barbaric. Or I was. Or I want to be. Anyway, Barbary is close to me.
*
What forms of expression are at my disposal?

Have I seemed happy for at least some of the time?

Maybe in the end it will appear (to be) more apparent.
*
Somebody is talking about a fear of airplanes and I’m here thinking about a fear of talking to anyone or in particular – a someone across the room from here.

Neither these nor those books are shields. And besides, a proper glance caught in spectacular timing cuts right through.

Oh, but a look caught in flight can see a lot of turbulence.
*
Patience will always prove random is regular. Chaos dictates how the lines will shorten. No turns are being taken, orderly, while waiting.
*
Does one exist who is deserving as much of admiration as affection?

I feel I’ve been born into a banned life. I think I understand now that there is no room in languages frequented or neglected for duality. For similarity to feel the same.

This soul came passed down from those passed on with certain policies intact. Boycott the insincere. Embargo bad faith. Find distant compassion for those who are fake only because otherwise there would be no need to ever use words. There’d be no comprehension of a range of emotions.

Nonetheless, I’ve given up on smiling.

(originally published in eccolinguistics)