a murder of lost consciousness

a murder of lost consciousness
eclectic turn back torture

any evening after that

where to find her? in london/
like a missing person

with fact. many to go over

no bags, electronic bags no return ticket

wake up immediately. shock. constipation.

search the computer for drowned bodies
no nothing band playing no attendance

without a trace

an unknown smile with intercom
information linked to blood posting

fire chamber no monday. no money

www close your eyes Tom for a rough translation

who was the question the man asked

at the police station online

a triple phone internet of data
led to untimely death

December 1st 2008

a game of russian roulette/ painted walls
out of her mind magenta. high on conspiracy numbers

in fact. buried. original ideas

sleeping heads on the couch

so quickly did you leave. a death. a birth a homicide

147 Twinkle

typing in strange, exotic places,
I have yet to discover the algorithm,
a destiny in digital immortality,
tho the white page of death has blinked many times
and pulled from me pieces of ancient signs,
arranged in blue-lined characters,
exhumed from burials along fiber-optic lay lines.

52 Mbps*

direct me to the adding machine
drawn through the password chain
~my username~ become estranged
to the purchaser and the highest bid
several million names on the checked box
for update lobby game
                                   
                                      URL redlining cleaned
the search engine game ghetto no it's safe to go in
no more dilapidated websites geocities boarded up
no more bots flashing tit to fuck no more crusty
monitor windows
           
                                all the clean hands on deck
all the clean screens all the old drive mechanisms
pay-per-view type settings font dreams
autonomously driven fingers sold at great interest
in the real estate eyeball speculation boom

inject fiber-optic junk laid underground
the cable time fix for rate
any way you want it melted down
boiled over greasy spoons the old fashioned way
doled out as regulated kb by kb
weigh kaleidoscopic doses
channeling a thousand waves

a hum on radio frequency an ancient eldritch thing
liquefy the internet jingle air pressure pulls it in
HDtv stamp on red letter grain
                                                     commodified
plastic boxes feed for consumption at wholesale.

the internet

there is space for three toothpaste flavors on the shelf

you don't even eat them though

only hold them in your mouth to taste

and spit them out

they're washed down the drain
under fluorescent lights
slowly eating away at the tube
the cardboard box deteriorates in the trash

of the flavors there is just one tube of cinnamon 

all are made in an unmarked factory

in the small corner of an unknown state

manufactured by an empty hand

peppermint is available for a limited time

if you buy two two packs of spearmint
you get the third for half off

the entire section is stacked neatly 

and with expertise with the latter flavor

going end to end
top to bottom

the only real choice is spearmint

when you think about it

it's the only flavor that makes any sense

that's why there's so goddamn much of it

it's all gone to shit

the entire thing

really

ya know

the entire toothpaste industry

it's all gone to shit

limited connection

rise and scroll

where there will be new things

normal aberrations

words within the picture frame

would you prefer to exit
                                        or wait?

chattering teeth

broken code

scroll and click

and you will glimpse glowing stars

depressed horizons

a picture frame within reason

a choice to say whether yes
                                             or no

The Static Gyre

when little angels
updated streams of webbed consciousness rotate in the static gyre
of the milky way.

a tic-tac-toe correlation is unmistakable.

how many out there know your every move?

tfw they are just voices in the wax cylinder
screaming escape.

do with this what you can
was written on the envelope
left at the far end of the bar
next to the operating system

fml what does that say about me?

you have every right to be frail.
the article says the only way to stay safe is to regulary change your password.

I can offer my expertise
                                        and my fingers
                                                                  and my overtime

if you'll have it and me and me and me.

Thoughts on Search Engines

search my name on google n' Tom Waits shows up
we have no connection outside singing Home I'll Never Be together
he went his wayand I went mine, we crossed our voices digitally

he won't admit
that he knows me
but search engines
are incapable of
untruths

If you think back remember far enough you see dogpile dot coms
it was the kayak airfare hotel combo equivalent for yahoo ask jeeves days
they'd compile the whole shitload of nothing looked for and throw up a list

I won't even
waste my time
to type the domain in
just assume it
is 404 error
defunct

If you Search Tom Waits I am nowhere to be found.

RE: INBOX (16)

a string of battered emails.
generation spam.
each letter literal abstraction,
disaffected; inbox is maintained.
cannot catch the stench
of sinking trash; delete and remove
after 30 days; calender adverts;
listserved linked mind; the
churning filtration dynamo
at work; labels; tabs; contacts.
translation material cast into space,
through inverted clouds,
tattooed mainframes; empty
caloric consumption; the bites of
mosquitoes in february, the
sour taste of upraised meat, a
funeral procession forwarded
down every street.

What to do?

the message was there.
that the litter was in the mail.
weighing in at 40 lbs.
no shipping cost.
tracked and noted to be, "out for delivery."
It was, as of this writing, two days late.
would I be asking for a refund
on the package? Would I be filing a disputed claim?
consider that it had recently snowed.
more than snowed actually, a blizzard, final total 3 feet in most counties.
also consider there was a cat in need of a place to shit.
also consider that there was a cat in need of a place to shit.

Suburban Sprawl

We each had good, green lawns.
Well-trimmed;
manicured.

There was this bit once, I tagged myself
in a photo in front of my lawn titled,
Just mowed the lawn #housework #weekends

It was featured on my facebook page.

We each had one of those, too.
Well-manicured;
quite serious.

There was a time when I used a pseudonym
but I shouldn't misrepresent myself;
luckily facebook had me change it back.

It was the right thing to do.

We each had an online presence.
Tied to our life;
our job.

What you say or do online can impact you
in reality, it should impact how you live,
we all understand that.

It is the small price you pay for progress.

Insects in the snow

insects in the snow crawling toward the data centers
     of the contemporary digital brain
insects in the snow were once lines in magazines
     now twitter and sulk on flat screens
insects in the snow feeding personal thoughts
     to four-wall unmanned fusion centers
the eye of the great surveillance wheel
     black and spinning like a .45

insects in the snow of dedicated bandwith methodology
     television talk show false flag causality
     youtube montage conspiracy screens
     SNL as a political platform voting machine
     jon stewart doing the viacom shill in plastic suit
insects in the snow buried in colorful personality quizzes online
     what do they say about you?
     I want to know

what do you know about insects in the snow
     like where did they come from?
     where on tumblr do they hide?
on some hallmark card line over ocean sunrise mountain top a forest photoshop
     how many will share or heart or like?
how many hands are red lines of ants steady crossing data paths
like insects in the snow
     unseen?

Insects in the snow as the static fades out and the white light goes
     insect like black trailing pixels cast out as typed lines
insects alone in the stale silent death
    within the inimical isolation of internet space
Insects in the snow becoming clear barren
     beginning to smear and blend
becoming obfuscated reality

Internet video violence v. comments

why everyone so violent?
     you see violence
want more
     I would punch that guy
in his face
     if i saw that
he should have more respect

I'll teach him to hold my values
my righteous inclination to violent
reaction of violent action

when worldview is my view
it is worldview forever pure

only violence can inform violence
(central conceit)
(methodological design)

response time is in fists
knives bullets blunt objects

only proof is the short history of man

guilty or innocent
right or wrong
payback

Connected

scratch that permalink
for the smell-O-vision
mark up-poison-tipped
shortcut for the next
internet reality next
one thousand minutes
and lost goes our day
for tits and dick in hand
waiting for the perfect cum
shot goes sunset midnight
early morning what's been
gained but there's so many
days 'gene so many days
not as many as there used to be
but still but still my sonny
soon there won't be more ahead
than behind and without and
within over darkened rooms
and just as big as you please
computer screen lights
glare out rainbow strobe lights
tag our mind to the clock
same odd dangling fear
of yesteryear
off go the lights
blank goes the porch
broken blue-back underlined hi-ways
click click clik cli cl--

Watch television on your phone

screens lined up,
they pace behind,
dressed in army
fatigues threads
of net neutrality,
listen! Hammer
pulled back,
click of old rusted
metal (we forget how
reality feels) slam,
a sickening life-like
sound, gun--shatters
over mute settings,
ringing fiber-
optic nightmare
one by one prisoners
lurch forward
brain matter anti-matter
spilling on granny
elevator floors,
a million tv audiences
cry out and silence,
sound travels slowly
so we all type out--

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

they've got models
living in camera-ed rooms
filling screen time,
Hollywoodland time,
reality mojo,
through inner-tube
highways broadcasting
their life force across
miles and cityscapes into
your unlit living room
everyone showing
white sad walls,

you can't help
thinking is that how
we live

but you
can't think it,

it's not allowed,
it's just sex and I'm the star she
says before she takes
out her dick
and before you realize
you've made it to the
wrong room,
made it with the wrong girl,
she's got the gun out
from behind her
cybernetic overcoat
and this window
is gone too,

the virus has evolved
language and pictures
aren't safe

the global village is a lie

it's an execution
of the soul

7,000,000,000 views
7,000,000,000 likes

click to view.

It remembers my password

Search:
                     Right
images:

I'm tagged in (1)

[is the face in the mirror
the one you're allowed to see?]

mine is smiling
without pretense

I hope (at least)
we haven't checked
our backlog yet
--in a while--

notifications waiting
piling up
kb/mb/gb/love

how many
waiting?

[have you ever stopped
and looked yourself in
the eye?]

for 30 years I thought
mine were brown (they're hazel)

Central heterochromia - is an eye condition that
does not interfere with a person's eyesight.

we are wrapped in
social media tears
you and I and all
of us we you and
me

faces recognized
locations checked-
in

I am signing on the
login screen I am
checking all the boxes
one x one
so
it remembers what
I've done.

Charcoal fiberoptic lore

they chalked my
mature rating up to
word count, text recognition
bullshit, slapped the reverse
cuffs on my skinned wrists,
left me locked down
in the internet stockade
without a key, languishing
in my gentle obscurity, my
self imposed anonymity, or
am I , was I, supposed to realize that
too late--? Hell, it's worked so
far for the mainframe locusts
popping all my shattered balloons,

I'm not even sure you can read this--
how does it translate from my head
to the keys to the screen to the save
to you, how do I know they don't alter
the meaning before it's too late--?

how do I know I'm even typing?
How do I know I'm not someone else?

Inbox

Hold tight to

cleverly imagined truths,

art and rainbow stained,

All text is an eventual lie,

in cursive or print,

whichever the chosen medium,

crass and laconic 

in the mornings wet fog,

refusing to rise from its 

too close to ground slumber,

burning like wildfires on the rising dawn,

We're all removed (forced marched) to 

the crystal-like clear darkness

of the american wilderness,

far from the maternity wards 

of claustrophobic sprawling suburban America,

waving to passersby at 180 mph

somewhere along the sad roads,

dancing our way through the sad fiber-optic dance,

ignorant of our shared sadness,

human and spambot alike.