The Girl I Lost To Cocaine

Lost in Hyperbolic Space

The girl I lost to cocaine
knew of hyperbolic space
first hand,
saw the world in graphite,
and had calculator eyes.

She wore her quadrennial pendant
on a red, white, and blue ribbon
around her neck, between her bust,
just so I would see it when we spoke.

There was something better about her.

She was the proverbial Killing vector,
curving space as she went along
meandering,
philandering,
she was the ecumenical whore
who knew how to compute cohomology groups
and inserted them into her cervix.

I tried desperately to get answers out of her
but they were buried under layers of abstraction,
splitting cells in her uterus,

and so I took to reading books instead.

She taught me QED, QCD, and QFT
but when it came to the big and quick
she only knew how to kill a buzz.

So the girl I lost to cocaine
became as far removed from reality
as that conjecture by Hodge
on algebraic varieties;
shapes that have no shape
not unlike she and I in bed.

She rippled like time
and shook like foam.
She took hits of smack
off the spine of my textbooks
then ate the contents of the pages,
and when she sank to that singularity
in her mind
she dreamt up such magnificent things,
such beautiful poetry,
mathematics of the purest variety,
mathematics so symmetric
that it couldn’t have been complete.

And so that girl I lost to cocaine
was the brightest thing in the night sky.
We wrote papers together
and ate poems about pi,
we flew in airplanes every second thursday

together

and computed de Rham complexes
in an imaginary anti-de Sitter space
while licking the lead off our fingertips.

She snorted everything,
my jokes,
my stories,
her powder,
her life,
and differential forms.

She is no longer complete.

That girl I lost to cocaine
is now buried
under piles of abstraction herself
and I’m learning
as quick as I’m able
so I can dig her out
and crucify her
on a binary operator.

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There Is Still Good In This World

Dig Deeper

There is still good in this world.
Buried under decades of rock
stuck
between mud and bone.

Held down by the weight of men,
dug out again
by their patience.

There is still good in this world
but it is not easily attained.

It is not on the menu
and you cannot buy it
online
in a store
or have it delivered
by hand
on a whim.

Some good was vaporized
in the 40s,
its shadow projected in carbon
along stone walls.

Some good was eaten by the machine
and by fat cats
with pen claws
and gold teeth
wearing Brioni and Kiton.

Some good was swallowed whole
by the Earth,
tectonically demanded
as a sacrifice
so poems could be written.

Some good was stored
in the back pockets
of forgotten children
lost in the Amazon
climbing trees,
not knowing whether to climb or cry,
fall or jump,
fly or fail.

Most good
was vaccuum sealed
and put in cryogenic freezers
to be thawed out with Disney
in one hundred years.

Cameras:
all-seeing.
Good is spoiled in most parts of the world.

Buried under the ocean floors,
recycled into islands
and bottom dwellers,
eaten by the giants that roam there
with their claws wagging behind
turning up dust
and mud
and bone.

There is still good in this world
but we
are not
it.

We search in the wrong places,
hold the wrong hands,
and you,
you know this.

You want to believe
this technological falacy,
this ecumenical calling
of cloud dwelling
pure,
unadultered
goodness
but it is foresaken
by men.

There is still good in this world
but it is not in the sky
or beyond
but instead lies buried
between mud and bone.

There is still good in this world
so dig deeper.
It’s down there,
waiting.

The Murderer Under The Rubble

Then and Now

Dead beside him,
the murderer under the rubble
lay quiet and still,
buried under concrete and mud.

Dead beside him,
the legacy of a child soldier
would be carved into the corpse
of a man who couldn’t be tried.

Beside him,
the dead man who threw the grenade
would have his crime transferred
post-humus to a fifteen year old boy.

He would be dragged from the rubble,
legs tattered, blinded by shrapnel,
a bag over his head, ears covered,
dragged to a paradise-prison.

And for eight years
he would be forgotten and dismissed –
the murderer under the rubble
was the blind boy, not the dead man.

The murderer under the rubble
lay cast aside by his government,
labeled ‘terrorist’ by a nation
hungry for blood and its own brand of justice.

He would be blindfolded
have LEDs shone into his remaining eye,
threatened with dogs, suffocated in water,
and hung by his wrists.

For he, the murderous child under the rubble
would be painted with the brush
of the simple-minded,
Hell-bent on avenging the unprovable claim.

Disowned by his country of birth,
forgotten by his breathren,
lost in the media to Britney Spears,
he cried to go home.

Now eight years later
the farcical trial ends on a note:
guilty.  He pled guilty.
You would too.

A loaded courtroom in a foreign country
hungry for vengeance and its false justice,
documents have been tampered,
hearsay trumped reality.

Omar Khadr will spend eight more years in prison,
lost in a non-functioning legal system
of military personnel, leaning on his shoulders,
shouting in his ears.

Omar Khadr may survive
but the murderer under the rubble,
the one whose name we never knew,
will have his ticket to Hell revoked.

The blame game of American politics
has chosen a new passenger for that trip,
and to their own end,
have managed to get the boy to board the plane.

Congratulations you hateful demons,
the first child soldier in half a century
has been tried and convicted.
You should be ashamed, Republica.

On The Boy I Watched Die (A Paradelle)

Fourteen hours later I woke up.  It took time but
fourteen hours later I woke up.  It took time but
I started to remember what happened.
I started to remember.  What happened?
But I took time.  I woke up to remember what happened
fourteen hours later.    It started

while I was pumping gas.  A boy was hit by a motorcycle
while I was pumping gas.  A boy was hit by a motorcycle
and I saw him die on the side of the road.  She was screaming “don’t, please, help,” and she
and I saw him die on the side of the road.  She was screaming “don’t, please, help,” and she
hit him while I, on the side of the road, was screaming, “don’t die, boy!  Please,”
and “help”.  I was pumping gas and she saw a motorcycle.  She was by a

group of people gathered around like hope, her friends.  She cried.  They were too.  Late in the evening, a
group of people gathered around like hope.  Her friends.  She cried.  They were too late.  In the evening, a
nugget of fear grew to a mountain.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him,” I wanted to say.  That
nugget of fear grew to a mountain.  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t save him.  I wanted to say that
around him grew a hope; a group of people gathered, nugget-like fear, mountain of friends.
They were too late.  I’m sorry she cried, I couldn’t save that.  I wanted to say, in the evening, to her

group of friends that they couldn’t save the boy it hit.  She
gathered her nugget of fear a while like I was, a mountain of late hope, and cried by him.
Please don’t die.  She was screaming.  I was too.  I’m sorry I saw.
The gas pumping on a side road grew in to the evening.  People were around him, around a motorcycle.
She wanted help, to say what happened, but I, I took time to remember.
I woke up fourteen hours later and started.

Wild, screaming off balconies with tattered hair
and eyes rash-red,
naked and flailing in the wind
toes gripping concrete like bark,
Black wind, black night, black encumberment
arguing with yourself
throwing fists at the shadows you can’t see,
threatening to jump,
Probing the sky with every leap as the ashy tubes flutter away their flint

Boiled water in a bulb, a chemically induced euphoria of kaleidoscopic wings,
you fly like embers
and float away in a restless sleep,
a seven second joy ride in the passenger seat
with the likes of Albert,
smiling through squinted lashes,
his tongue wagging in the frictionless frame in which he resides.
Albert steers left and slams on the breaks,
but it’s a commonly accepted fact
that zombies can only drive lawnmowers
and eighteen-wheelers.
And my Audi R8 is neither.

Forgotten in a troglodytic history,
a cousin’s life with the coat hanger
is easily misconstrued for normalcy
while the carbons and parchment of middle school
offer no refuge from the Oni.
“The devil works in mysterious ways”,
they say
but they may be devils themselves
so I wouldn’t pay much regard.
So just take one more hit.

One
more
fucking
hit.

When your eyes go demon
take that plunge.

Walk to the subway and pray that the devil’s foot misses you.
Remember Bambi.
Remember who sat and ate flowers and who ran naked through the streets.
Flowers will get you killed if you keep your head down.
Remember blades of grass falling toward you.
Remember the earthen smell as it compacts in your nostrils.
Remember the taste of the forest.
Remember the sting of hot concrete.
Remember the howl of a dozen onlookers.
Remember the Oni.
Remember Albert warned you.

You are energy, child.  You are unbounded, unorientable energy.
You are angel’s dust.
You are angel dust.
You are a chemical imabalance.
You are unbalanced by chemicals.
You are bounded, bounded,
bounded by logic,
you are bounded by logic
beneath the logical boundaries
of stability.
Chemical tulip sprouts in your nerves
sprouts in your nerves
sprouting nervously,
shy of sheers.

You are brilliant, baby.
You never needed darkness.
You never needed chemicals,
You never needed wings.
You never needed what you never needed
But need never needs logic.
You discarded fool.

This full city has left me alone.
And Albert ate your ashes.
Albert wears your shoes.
Albert fucks your husband.
Albert holds you against electrons.
Albert wrote your book.
Albert got the praise.
Albert lived your life.
Albert is the soul you never had.

This soul of yours is a malignent mole on the shoulder of the Earth.
Cauterized souls.
You have been discarded by huffing the ashes of boiled tulips.
You have the ashen feet of a fallen soldier
Who only wanted to come home to his wife
His wife is Albert.
An asexual demon.
Albert fucked her husband.

He stole your place.
You have died.

Twelve years and your soul is wind.
Wind in my hair.
And I shun tulips now because of you.

Rot in hell.  You are the element of a Dhramin, Oni.

On Black Holes

This photon is mine.
I caught it in 2003
Passing under a weeping willow.

I put it in my pocket
And left it there
Alive.

This photon is mine
And I’ll be damned
If I’ll let it interact with you.

No, it’s buried
Where you can’t
See it.

This photon is mine
And as far as I can tell
It’ll outlive us all.

I may have changed its destiny,
If it ever had one.
I hope I don’t evapora…

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On Hanging Up The Hooks

Here I’m sailing on a raft made of stolen planks and oars.
The ocean thumps,
the sun squeezes sweat out my pores,
and I am searching for you.
You are my compass, my star at Cosmic north.
A drawn memory of toasting to better days,
you are.
Ahead, with one running leg,
I stumble to the helm,
call out to my men,
“She is a pretty one, boys,
and will fetch a high prize.”

The cheers are filtered
by the brim of my hat
and that crawing parrot on my shoulder,
whispering your taste,
tracing the shape of your face on my cheek
and I wish,
oh I wish, that you were boxed,
left at my door,
locked for only me.

But I wait and will continue
for when the catch is as rich in substance
as you,
lost beside the ocean
waiting to be dug up and claimed,
I would cross all seven seas
to meet you on that beach,
give away my stolen planks,
and let the bird fly free.