a social codex

"Recess"

[written on the night of 4.21]

Back in elementary school

Everything was simpler

It was all set up just right

You had recess, you had lunch, then you had lunch recess even

You were taken care of then

Nobody complained

The art of social interactivity

Was made a natural part of routine

When the bell rang, you knew

You could go outside and play and think of nothing else

And you knew all your friends would be out there with you

The boundaries were less defined too, less constrained

If you wanted to play with Dick & Jane

You didn't need to ask them

They're there, just find their social pod and play

They welcomed you.

Junior high, high school, and higher school arrived

You learned you wouldn't get recess anymore

But you still had lunch

You could live with just lunch

Visiting Dick & Jane at their lockers for some small talk

Walking with them between classes

You still got your fair share of human contact

It wasn't ideal but it would be enough.

But now you're in college

There's no lunch even

There's only class and going home, that's all there is

No longer do you have a chance to talk to them with ease

Instead we digitize our selves

And live our lives through screens

Playing out a make-believe in pixels

Pretending all along we know who our friends are

We become our avatars

Rather than speak we reach out textually

Rather than smile we punctuate

You tolerate it because admittedly

It's easier for you to open up this way

But still you think you might like to hear

The sound of voices now and then

And you can

You can hear their voices, of course, if you want to

But there is a protocol

A social codex of procedures you must follow to the word:

You have to expose yourself

You have to say "I want you as my friend.

Will you come to recess with me please ?"

It's like an ancient courting ritual gone wrong

And so, upon asking, you attend a café with them

But you don't get to play at this recess

You can only dully talk and burn your tongue on darkness

The thing is, actually, you're forced to talk

If you let a silent moment pass you lose points

They're counting, keeping track all along

And the whole ordeal is really a steaming heap

Of discomfort and all-around unpleasantness

The opposite of natural

Frankly, the mere idea of this thing called college upsets you

The fact that everyone around you is growing up for real

You know that nowadays Dick is out there somewhere fucking Jane

(When the kissing was enough to ache your heart)

And you're expected to do much the same

While your mental faculties are stoned to death

The liquor seeps in leaving sticky in its trail

It's such an insincere, corrupt eruption, wholly unattractive

It's all too much

And all you really want to do is be a kid again

The tetherballs and jungle gyms stand vibrant in your mind

A time when you could forget all your worries

On the playground

When life was yours to live

ellipsis

"Things I'll Never Do"

[It is likely I will add to this list in the future.

For now it gets the point across.]

I want to take a bullet for my best friend.

I want to kiss a stranger and tell her she's beautiful.

I want to have break-up sex.

I want to jump from an airplane with no parachute.

I want to drive at 90 on a scale that only reaches 85.

I want to burn a 100-dollar bill with a candle.

I want to swallow a sword.

I want to climb Mount Everest.

I want to slow-dance naked.

I want to drown while holding hands.

I want to say good-bye to Isabella.

I want to kill someone for no reason.

I want to fondle a katydid.

I want to journey to the center of the Earth.

I want to die happy.

I want to go to Heaven.

I want to go to Hell.

I want to be loved.

Just because I can.

the pink meat

"Pornographic Photography"

[written 4.12 (late the previous night)]

Girls run wild through this world

You can't walk down the street without

Catching a glimpse of the pink meat

The ones with the softer flesh

They catch your eye and your mind

Zooms in, takes focus, snaps

Clicks and whirs and picks another focal point

Later when you're trying not to let it

This folder in your digitized memory resurfaces

Flips open and slides photos through your viewport

You bite your lip and contort your brow

With admiration and degradation

And you long

You can't keep this reel from replaying

Your eight-track mind embraces the visual endorphins

It's a comforting sort of discomfort

Always looking at the carnal beauty only

Never thinking of the one who pumps her blood

Your conscience tells you this won't keep you sane

Why, it's unhealthy

To let the softness confiscate your brain

But this time it's different

Sitting down you open the file labeled "Emma"

And find her set of snapshots is unique

Depicting not her legs, her curves, her fuckables, her softness

But her eyes, her smile, her dimples, and her button nose

It's a purer admiration than the rest

Yes

You think you've stumbled upon

An honest brand of love

searching windowpanes

"The Courting"

a sonnet by Antoine

[written 4.8 and 4.9]

I walk into the room and spy your eyes:

I want to meet them but not let it show;

So carefully I shuffle by your side

And take a seat in the adjacent row.

I want to speak but total silence reigns,

So, not to draw attention to my crush,

I must keep quiet, searching windowpanes,

Daydreaming of reciprocated lust:

Our fingers interlock, our hands hold tight,

Our mouths draw closer, hearts draw bated breaths,

The tension rises, tummyflies take flight;

When opening my eyes you're still as death.

Thus goes the courting, passing every day

By throwing opportunity away.

deliver the message

"Reading Therapy"

by Antoine

Reading is a task for me

Don't get me wrong, I love it

I love reading, I really do

I love to read but it's a task for me

It's really sad, you see

I love to read but reading is a task

It's like there's someone, I mean

I love to read but there's someone

Inside me who doesn't

Love it so much and he's doing everything he can

To keep me from reading

Someone inside me who hates to read

Hates to read and he does all he can to distract me

He wants to distract me

From, um

I mean

Distract me from the reading

The reading, the task at hand

The task at hand is reading

But this little birdie, you see

All he wants to do

All he ever wants to do is write

Writing is all he ever wants to do

He doesn't like to read, you see

So here's how it goes

I'll get my book and I'll open it

I'll open my book, you see

And find my page and I'll start to go over the words

I go over the words, you see, with my eyes

And sometimes they make sense

But sometimes they don't make sense and they just

They just sort of, um

They just sort of don't

Process and so

I'm trying to read but the words

The words just keep repeating

I'm trying to read but the words keep repeating

The words, they just keep repeating because

My eyes don't deliver the message to my mind

And I have to go back and try to send it again

The message in these words, you see

I have to read it over

And over sometimes

And sometimes it's worse

Sometimes I just forget what I'm doing

Forget that I'm reading and just start thinking

I'll think about something that fascinates me

Something I read that fascinates me

And I'll stare off and think about it

I'll think about it and forget that I'm reading

Forget what I'm doing

I'm trying to read

I just sort of, um

Zone out, you see

It's the focus that bothers me

Troubles me most, I think

Yes, I think it's the focus

The trouble is the focus

It's just

I can't focus

I can't seem to, um

It's just something like

Um

My eyes ... and the words ...

On the page ... and I try but ...

Hold on

...

Um yeah

So

Where did I go wrong ?

(it's true)

"This is How I Write an Essay"

music.
open browser
Facebook~
no friends ? boo.
chat~
friend !
talk talk complain, frown
open folder
take out books/papers
set them out, frown
open Word
check Facebook~ nope
check chat~ nope
look at notes, frown
I need company
I need someone to talk to
I need company
I need to talk to someone
I need company
I need to talk to her
where is she ?
Facebook~ nope
chat~ nope
look at notes > headache <
fingers drive through forehead creases
palms catch falling brow
tips pressure hairline
squeeze your temples
hold your brain in
furrow your muscles
in mental torture
sweep, try to sweep the agony away
look up, eyes pained
breathe in deep, exhale, stare off
where is she ?
Facebook~ nope
chat~ nope
read prompt, ugh.
where is she ?
Facebook~ nope
chat~ nope
Blogger, what the hell
I'll write something my mind is friends with then

for motivation
blah.
Facebook~ nope
chat~ there she is. :D
talk talk complain, smile
stare blankly a moment ...

work.

ten more teenies

~~~

I don't understand
why I've not writ more of these
seventeen-piecers.

~~~

Greenery ignites;
red-orange blazing through nature
signals inner might.

~~~

Two stars collided
in the black of metaspace:
you stemmed from the blast.

~~~

Guardian angels
don't do what you think they do:
you're safer alone.

~~~

One two three four five,
one two three four five six ... shit,
that didn't work out.

~~~

You said you loved her,
quivering with nerves' affright:
her silence answered.

~~~

Hearts don't really break;
they just stop delivering
oxygen to brains.

~~~

Four turns into five:
my wrist feels more loved today
and I more content.

~~~

Exquisite duress
ornaments your temperament,
pondering future.

~~~

Cuando te veo,
lamento con sonrisa
tus sentimientos.

~~~

that familiar dejected clash

"Word Count"

by Antoine.

Here comes another social situation,

an unannounced challenge of word count:

the more you say, the more she'll like you.

The combatants are yourself,

the girl you want to impress

(synonymously, the one you never can),

and the obligatory "other guy"

who won't stop spitting sentences.

A moment of silence arrives:

it's your responsibility to fill it with your vocal chords;

but naturally you fumble and

her face ... and you try to think but ...

her laugh ... and ummm ...

and very little actually comes out.

You've missed your turn.

Somehow it repeats like this, day after day,

and you've never learned how to prevent it.

Time after time you go in confident

and come out sulking thinking

your word count was less than satisfactory,

feeling that familiar dejected clash

of humiliation and regret and kick-yourself

and working calculations in your head.

You only get farther behind

with every conversation,

simply because your mind wasn't built

for speaking:

your fountain flows through print.

Because of this

you are forgettable

and always plan to be.

"afterward"

Reminiscently
incompatibility
discombobulates.

"envelope"

she shivers in snow
arms wrap body, lips warm skin
she welcomes winter

careful, she's watching ...

subject: retirement 
style: informative 
source: William Shakespeare

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."

Due to extenuating circumstances, I have resolved to retire from my writing for an indeterminate expanse of time. Finally I lie immersed in the realisation that this is not what I am meant to do. I now take leave to pursue some trade much nobler than that of a pensmith. Expect no further wordflow from this fountain.