Qaxzar

New York, The City rises outside my door For some, a playground, so vast to explore But for me, a reminder, I cannot ignore That the world is too large and I'll never be sure How it all works, or why it's all there Too many features I cannot compare Most never known and most never seen Not in the flesh, and Not on the screen. Not by the ear, and Not by the tongue, Not spoken, Not read, Not thought and Not sung Not under soles, Not breathed into lung Not in my experience I will not understand So I'm left to imagine, but more likely not That that I do is too quickly forgot All of these people, and all of their thoughts More time than I ha

I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons, this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons. These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died. My interest in the machines began at an early age, enticed by the illusion of c

Untitled ("So I think") It's hard to remember. I think so anyway. As change occurs the past disappears. It's hard to compose. I think so anyway. Thoughts don't seem to come like they used to. It's hard to believe. I think so anyway. It all seems to be pretty pointless. It's hard to start. I think so anyway. Though its an important part of doing anything It's hard to ... It's hard to … It's hard to justify. I think so anyway. Repetition is easy, meaning is not. It's hard to sleep. I think so anyway. Descent to darkness is not my friend. Is this a poem? I think so anyway. Though its content might be better with a bit of prose Wo

WHERE TO GO It is daylight, err it is raining actually still you should go now or you will be late, she sd, to the reflection of a memory that danced in & out & back again as she looked across the window- less room D.B. Guy

You won't even empty a trash can? I did. It is not even my turn But the trash can is full again now I don't see how this is my concern When it overs it will be, as trash piles up all around us If you care so much do it yourself I can't, this is a freshman job                              ~D.B. Guy

The Yellowcard Show I stagger out of the Paradise Rock Club. 11:04pm. 42 degrees. Short sleeves, no jacket; I give zero fucks. I have experienced something beyond words, but I'll try In 50 minutes it will be All Hallow's Eve, a Monday Due and not yet begun I have an essay on James Joyce and A reckoning on the occult, inner mysteries of the CPU. Again, I give zero fucks The last hour and a half were the best possible use of my time. Not 5 miles away, people I sympathize with are protesting the failure of America, But tonight I have seen her undeniable beauty: 904, as the fire code rates, packed in to the inch A choir united, th

Interrupted Reading Drinking a Guinness Extra, an empty gesture, Beset truly by the words of Joyce, I am sick of the turning from text To annotation. I wish only to read A text as it was meant, With the knowledge not aside But present already in my blasted skull It's like the modern appreciation of Shakespeare —At best an approximation. The words that were Common, fallen out of usage. The words then invented, now commonplace. Thither and hither again I will look Tracking the details Researching the clever allusion Trying not to miss & missing anon what's right in front of me                            D.B. Guy

A poem for #occupyboston 11:33pm boston (https://www.deviantart.com/boston)_Police: #occupyboston The BPD respects your right to protest peacefully. We ask for your ongoing cooperation. Occupy (https://www.deviantart.com/occupy)_Boston: 11:51 The BPD asks reporters to leave the inside of the camp they don't want them to record and report on what they're about to do. 1:31 Cops give Occupy Boston five minutes to vacate. Nobody is leaving. 1:41 @OccupyBOS_Media: The police are beating the Veterans for Peace 1:44 Occupy (https://www.deviantart.com/occupy)_Boston: Cops arresting everyone. We are being beaten. KEEP TAKING PHOTOS. I walk there as my legs will cary me... The Aftermath: All quiet on the western curb Over 100 arre

A poem for Photoshop A thought sometimes forms I live too much  yet I do too little.     Woken at strange hours, never asleep.        Rapt in raps        or wrapped in riddles Chained to links or hammered to handle     stubbed to bone Mens et          Manus There is time yet, I swear         To flourish To dream         To make To be         To do