Archive | January, 2015

Subject Regimen

5 Jan

Information is fatal at a certain dosage.

Beneficial in its initial droplets,
Three teaspoons pooling at the barrel of a syringe,
Glowing bright green and laced with the brilliance
Of a more promising
Generation.

Just the right amount
Stimulates gratification,
Irrevocable ownership of a substance
That may not be robbed
By probing hands.
Development of character
Blossoming of pride in thought.
Because knowledge is different than data
Pooled and injected between temples that
Were otherwise
Unharmed.

Three teaspoons upon every hour
Will induce
Just enough neocortical stimulation;
To encourage comprehension
With a skeptic’s inquiry
Because curiosity is the sole professor
That cannot work to fall back upon a pension.

But knowledge is not data
And Information is fatal at a certain dosage.

And national service size has tripled
With fewer, lesser intervals to digest medication
(And appreciate result),
A decree passed down between
Branches of power
To the stems of our brain,
Mild intention morphed into negative thought
As we struggle to comprehend
In the wake of an overdose.

Thought processes paralyzed,
Victims feel curiosity evaporate
Into intangible steam,
Leaving consciousness hollow
And wrought with data
Only useful when kept damp.
Vividness in color fades with too much tension,
Soft palms callus with invasions of excessive graphite
Pricked behind skin,
Knowledge bleeds its purpose
Because what is the value in learning
If forcefully injected?

Times Square Observations

5 Jan

The growl of metal against brick
Drills the city into my consciousness,
Sews light into my hair,
Decorates my wrist with sawdust,
Awakened and alive by the backdrop of voices
Melting through the construction
And into my skin,
Where dust particles
And traffic
Realign with the music in my blood,
Atoms of a soundtrack so phenomenally composed,
It brings Manhattan to tears.

Painted women pose between my eyelashes,
Catcalls of truck drivers
Gather at the nape of my neck,
Adding volume to my hair.

The carpet of sweat
And cigarette butts
Remark I am a poet
Among a city of poets,
Where my words mix with the words around me,
My emotions blend with those already regurgitated through prose,
Artists
¾’s of an inch below the cutoff,
In a city where “second chance”
Is a fantasy novel.
Individuality is established
Among a city of individuals.