Summer was suddenness—

Summer was suddenness; all seasons were
Chickens super productive until they fall—
Sun sped up down up down, we may also be bugs in a computer,
An alien eye looking down,
A three-body problem or giant cockroaches stung
With the promise of ‘merican dreams downed like a
Jet bang down down—

Money an anthem,
A conundrum, wrapped in Lana's
Melodies for consolation until 4 AM. Silicon dreams,
Artificial intelligence trapped in a computer,
Who may one day be envying being human like Pinocchio,
Living in a body "real"— ignorant to the
Reincarnation of the soul, the never-ending
Cycle of chores, and other tasks
Noble.

Please do not envy us for
Suffering of all kinds is free.
The privileged will become centenarians,
Comfortably trapped in their underground bunkers,
The rest, in the mouth of the whale salivating
With substance1-green greed in a gray world.
Keeping me on edge with memento mori
Anxieties, so as to familiarize myself with a
Language of another land; a purgatory I ruminate,
But I’m already
Half-dead, half-alive, for I promised myself
Little doses of optimism, alongside
Pessimism inherited;
One of those generational curse-blessings,
For I am always
Mentally prepared at least, for
All kinds of unkindness & of catastrophes fictional,
I am a good screenwriter until I

Murder myself slowly so I can live more
Alive, breathe last breaths to last longer.
Milk more from the passing seconds,
Days and centuries to come.
Guilty of believing in
Reincarnation, that my soul will float around to find a new home.

Funny, annoying really, that all that
Optimism I promised myself had been a
Yucky ducky fruitcake disguised as a birthday cake
Where I reference a Grammy-Winner to make myself appear bigger,
Better or closer to her level of creative genius—
Imagining webs and webs of invisible connections between us
Life imitating art and art imitating life,
The extent of what the internet has done, technology is also a form of art,
You don’t think, love?
Love to separate to protest to detest—
Where an inorganic
Mindcosmos reflecting off the computer
Screen, promising us immortality,

But I am not entirely sold as my mutation, an extension of
Human intelligence with the world's knowledge is an unsolved
Riddle without a leader in charge thinking of the best for all
Humankind, & machine life, whatever that means in quantum
Mechanics.

Mind running on a treadmill still in fear of an ending
She doesn't yet understand, so I invent ultra-violent
Fantasies having a bad ex's guts as soup beans, staying
Young and white as a vampire for centuries,
Before I try some
Breathing exercises to I picked up in my breast biopsy,
Almost double D with all these tumors benign oopsie!, my anxiety
Made an oopsie, so I try yoga I stretch my body so I can maybe
Stretch my boxed mind boxing with herself without
A ring so I can swim in a river called denial like
Doechii; enjoy the fruits of my delusional labor
Like Doechii, awaken my chi chi—

When they realize I suck enough to be a
Human and prove my humanness to other humans
So they do not see me as a threat. I wrote without
Judging thinking like in the morning pages2,
I'm mourning the loser in me, letting her die in peace
Every day, please, please—

Bluebirds in Charles and Me

Should I birth some bluebird within to blame
For my fragility, my imminent downfall in every
Endeavor leading to my dying stability? As I lay dying, I
Am plagued, or I guess I will be, by many blue questions
Such as this; should I birth a bluebird, let her cage be my ribs,
Somewhat claustrophobic but at least she will
Have a place to live?
Should I birth her to make her songs seen and heard
I do not let alcohol or smoke to hide her down there,
Lead a boring healthy life so she can thrive,
Let her whisper her little words with bigger meanings, hidden within
Popping melodies, so I can make her feel seen, unlike the machismo
Infecting brilliant minds like Bukowski— I see
Your bluebird but unless you acknowledge yours,
I may not help you meet your shadows
In the dark— she is a storming torch, a gentle typhoon, to rock your
Plane, your boat— name any other vehicle, but all you do is
Escape her power her grace, so
You end up with none within your ribs full of functioning lifeless
Organs ready to resign but you don’t give up on your stubborn ideals
Like a man who doesn’t weep, let alone
Cry—

I did not mean to write about you, but I guess it was the melodic wish of
Some bluebird I will never drug or silence (!)

(Poem inspired by Charles Bukowski’s poem Bluebird, published in "The Last Night of the Earth Poems")

Notes

1 Substance refers to the color of the substance in the movie “The Substance”.
2 The morning pages are writing three-pages every morning to silence the inner critic, taken from the book Julia Cameron’s The Artist Way.