Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Gemma Augustea

to see it was to fill the mind with love
like a moonlit night visit to a garden of the gods and goddesses
or an impression of noon from high above the earth of perfect hue

for all our mural crowns and veils
cornucopia and realms of water floating Gaia worn and even weary
in ceasing struggle we find disposition gracefully through such a contest

Friday, April 12, 2019

at dusk it rained and there was still ice on the lake

at dusk it rained and there was still ice on the lake
a blue mist arose while the frozen water looked like stone
a grey slate


Rice Lake

Monday, April 08, 2019


I wanted to buy bread and a few grams of milk. They said I was under in my hibernation hours, and the business they are running a strict one, they are saving the planet. I got a lot of nasty stares. I picked up my card and smiled at them.

"If I caught up on my hibernation hours, I'd get behind on my student loan payments."

They kept staring at me.

"Legally I'm required to pay my student loan, so I have to work and not hibernate. My stasis debt adds up. Because of this, I'm punished by not being able to buy food at your store. Then I have to travel to the government center to eat, and that takes time out of working."

"We don't care. You're burdening the roads, electrical infrastructure, and services because you are above your hibernation."

I shrugged.

"Why don't you pull in the same direction?"

I waved at them as I left.


Outside, the wind blew. I was cold. I had on a city jumpsuit, made of some kind of cheap duropaper, county shoes, a municipal jacket. The shoes smell, the jacket itches, the suit is a dirty white color with black marks on the elbows and knees. My clothing rental allowance was revoked. Replacement clothing, mandated, free. A felony to edit clothing, repair it, or alter it in any way. City, county, or municipality do not bother to supply underwear. Which is good, I suppose. The padded jacket never stops itching.

My hat is an heirloom, the only piece I posses, the only thing I own in this world. It is a 100 year old New York Yankees baseball cap.

I adjust the cap, and walk back to my hop. I roll up the metal door, showing my sleep niche set into the building wall, there is a fold out toilet, and retractable chair with tabletop and small dust screen. There is also a recessed storage drawer, and a small fridge full of nothing. It all takes up about 3 feet of sidewalk when opened. If you use the toilet, the whole world sees you go. At night you fold everything in, to avoid the wind and dust, and sleep with the vent in the metal door open.

Home sweet hop.

Friday, April 05, 2019

Dear __________,

June 11, 2046
(I think)

Dear __________,

The police know I am writing this, as it happens. They know everything nowadays, and they don't have to do anything to stop me.

They are waiting for me to fall asleep. Then they will come and stun me while I am unconscious, take me away, to whatever cryogenic prison. It may be years before they revive me, and I go on a quick secret trial and be executed.

No need to hide anything, or even confess here. They know when I fall asleep all my crimes will be laid bare, they will simply scan my mind, sift through billions of memories, use AI and algorithms to paint a picture of a thought criminal, having felony asocial attitudes, harboring deliberate creative thoughts with no socially redeeming values. They will measure how often I procrastinated, avoided being surveyed, pretended to fit in, pretended to agree.

I've been awake three days now, and I don't feel over tired for some reason. I may not feel a wall of fatigue because I know what will happen when I do close my eyes, it will be the end. It will be like dying. So I notice the little things, I appreciate my ordinary surroundings.

I rejoice that it is an unusually beautiful late afternoon. I think I've seen birds, or even butterflies playing but this is my imagination. Spring is here, and it might rain next week. I will never see you again. I thought that someday, despite how things are, we would be able to meet. Even if it affected your social score temporarily. But you need work and have so many people depending on you, and I would cost you too many points. We agreed in the past this was the reality. I thought in the end it would not bother me to not see you one last time. But I have been up for many days.

When I do fall asleep, I will dream about when you were born, and how the world was a different place than it is now. I will see hi rises without cameras, blue skies free of drones, and avenues without scanners. No checkpoints, no public humiliation broadcasts, no spontaneous crowd gathering shaming.  No fear of walking to fast, too slow, being too happy, or too sad. I will relive our home where you could lock your front door, own your own clothing, own books, or have pens and paper, and your ID wasn't printed on everything you are authorized to touch.

Crime does not exist anymore, the state made it non existent. People do not exist anymore, just compliant thinking objects. But this has become a diatribe, or a lecture.


The sun has set, and I can hear thousands of crickets. It is a timed recording of mine, all the crickets on Earth are extinct, just like every butterfly. I look around this apartment one last time, I bow to the crickets, I bow to the lingering light in the sky, I bow to the memory of you, I bow to the small red lights in the wall that record everything I say and do.

There was so much more I wanted to do for you, and for my life. If only I had acted with more courage, given more love, took more chances for what was right, this would not have happened. I am not certain, but it would not have hurt.

I will dream of you now, and be content with that. I look at what I have written, on this contraband paper, with this ancient pencil, and I see it is inadequate. I think of Pancho Villa who said to his compatriots: "It can't end this way! Tell them I said something!"

If only I had more to say! If only I was more than me in this room. If only there was more than just a feeling of distance and now heartbreak. But I come back to myself, and see we are all adequate. We are all outfitted to get through what is given to us. I am grateful now. I have no more to say. There is nothing to be said.

With anyone suffering or gone, still all was absolutely beautiful. Like this last moment, this night.




Record no. 544 - E23// 656
Retrieved from the old internet, 2088
22.2345.222277.290090 7  5 M

Tuesday, March 26, 2019


i'm me
like a child
stands on
a balcony
and imagines
they are
a king



Thursday, March 21, 2019


we perform in our head
on any normal beautiful day

separate from
primeval innocence
that hovers almost like sky

in abiding
all is realized as one
we saw ourselves as actors


the day after the first day of spring

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

can't blame sailors / for telling tales

can't blame sailors
for telling tales
even if they aren't true
ocean gives
the ocean takes from you
can take everything
if you make it back
you need to say something
about what can't be explained
to those who won't believe