A Flow of Electrons

All experience and achievement is based on a flow of electrons.

A gradient of positive charge to negative charge.

An elemental natural state for man

with eyes raised to the sky, a creation of light from heat.

Rapid oxidation exciting electrons

from a solid state to a gaseous

or oxygen to carbon dioxide

(or, in oxygen-poor environments, monoxide).

The type, type, type,

space, space, space of the keyboard.

The electrostatic force in the electrons in his finger

push against the electrostatic force in the button

signaling a release of electrons to the motherboard

and there it is

the letter g.

The ideas that changed the human universe

gravity from the electrons in Newton's head

which undoubtedly came from eating apples

that were assimilated into gray matter,

apple electrons flowing to think about a falling apple.

Wave particle duality from the heads of planck and Heisenberg

matter masquerading as monks with their heads down.

Like religion, each culture has its own story about the creation of zero.

(Either the Arabs were first, or the Mayans

or the Egyptians. Or the Greeks.)

001010001110011.

Off, off, on, off, on, off, off, off, on, on, on, off, off, on, on.

Atoms share electrons -

we share knowledge.

Natural selection against numbers (or Gradualism against symbols)

As I've grown more accustomed to using words

it seems that my former proficiency with numbers

leaks out of my head

until I'm adding 52 as 54.

Consciousness evolved as a defense mechanism -

evolving, as punctuated equilibrium to external stimuli.

The stimulus - florescent light, adjectives and adverbs.

Natural selection against numbers. Gradualism against symbols.

The accountant forgets how to use the correct form

of their, there, they're.

And the toll booth attendant forgets

how to treat people in a social situation.

(Which is I guess why they're always talking on their cell phones.)

(Training for a future social situation.)

(One where they're not alone, in between 20 second interactions with strangers.)

(Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.)

If:

Man, being alive, conscious and afraid, forgets how to live.

And:

Woman, being alive, conscious and afraid, forgets how to live.

We learn from the Bible:

God is faithfully unafraid.

Therefore:

God is not alive.

An explanation of the prior piece

I'm usually a firm believer that you shouldn't have to explain what you write, but I don't want "A Collective Social Experience" to be taken the wrong way.

The last piece was not an indictment of being pro-choice. In fact, I'm very pro-choice. I was thinking about access to choice, and wanted to explore (and make you think) about how our access to money influences the choices we make. Does that mean a woman who sticks out an unwanted pregnancy is more pious than a woman who takes society's so-called "easy way out"? I don't know. I don't think so, but I've never had to make that choice.

My point is this: I think the piece talks about how access influences choice, but I'm not so sure it doesn't also talk about how choice influences access - that is, a woman whose mother has a child out of wedlock is also more likely to have a child out of wedlock - so our parent's choices influence our choices, whether as a function of wealth, religion, or both.

That's it. I didn't want to delete it, even though I thought about it, but I decided an explanation would be prudent.

A Collective Social Experience

Aborted fetuses and birth control

shield young rich girls

from the fate of their poor counterparts.

Allowing them to go on unfettered,

unrelenting on their path to perfection.

A collective social experience

shared by the affluent, the pretty

and the better off.

An understanding between them

of how close life got to the trailer, or the projects.

A way to control thousands of years

of urges between tall boys

and busty girls.

A way to give the wanted child everything,

including their own chance to do the same.

The i In Voice

Strain to hear
my small voice
Please.
Waves crash to the shore
At intervals
Drowning. White noise

i am hungry
To find the words
To say what i mean
Far from the land of my birth
With its colorful
Papaya and language
That no longer fits

The dichotomy of the
american dream
i open each text ready
To find the words
my words
Searching for me

III.- A return to normalcy

On the street

sweltering fumes rose from block after block

and our heads swam with beer.

The dark kind, less like beer and more liquor.

I can smell the smoke on you, I said.

A long drag of summer.

A return to normalcy -

the other seasons, deviant.

Dead, dying or diseased.

My breathing set side by side with coughing.

Your dress hung off you like curtains

and you concealed your bagged eyes

with concealer and sunglasses.

You mourned, the days passed by without you noticing.

Our trysts revolved around sport

food and pieces of Orbit.

In rapid succession

our own orbit was elliptical -

at times close and others distant.

I wake up removed.

Clove clinging to cilia,

scotch served clean

and always regretful of the past.

Like putting on a sad song

and walking away from the music

unwilling to listen but needing it to be playing.

Scene bars with PBR.

Text messages and penitence.

II.-An ill-fitting dress

When people emerge from Winter

bleak eyes three months dimmer from

florescent lights

they open their cores to the thought

that their gametes could converge with another's.

But like the worst night of a show's run,

where the New York Times reviewer sits in row two

and stares down his nose, through his glasses, 

and chortles. CHORTLES! -

I shaved a forest of growth

and she put on an ill-fitting dress.

We walked down to the corner 

(or we met there, I can't remember. Damn the cold.)

and bellied up to the bar.

The spring threatened, but wavered.

It was warm, but it wasn't.

It was nice, but it was snowing.

It rained for three days straight.

But inside, my Blackberry still went off.

Her iPhone tempted her to better company.

Maybe the promise of a better time, with better people

and more attractive mates.

She told me how wonderful the springtime was

and I remarked on how tree pollen made me feel lightheaded, but not high.

My phone went off and hers did too.

I laughed, and though of how the poor rely on their technology.

The trick to being rich, I said finally, is to be above your phone and e-mail.

Be there, but not there. Be so there that you are unable to be found.

Like Jesus. 

(If there was ever a fellow above it all, it was Jesus. Body and mind.)

Jesus' would have never answered his cellphone.