Too Late the Rider Dodges Chaos Attractors

I used to be a night rider,
the two wheels beneath me would spin,
I made sure the rims were trim.
Singing about starving in belly of whale.
Me and myself would be the geek chorus
on those summer nights, I would have a public burning.
With Tom Wait's Blood Money acting as the catalyst
for my private catharsis.

Since that time I am no longer a self photographing dork.
Nowadays instead of the brothers Gracchi I reminisce about Torn and Taxis.
There is no crying for my lot at 36.
Though my heart is full of regret,  I don't want the sleeping dogs to bark.
What is this but another doggerel verse
while I should be planning a monograph on data structures.
and asking art! art! whats the state of the art!

My mind no longer shoots off multiple threads instead
the processes are context switched out and move about.

Enigma Of Visions

When I woke up Friday morning I was worked on worked on one of my bash projects
and the when that reached its next debug level I looked at the mysql tables 
that I had exported to csv files.

All the data was there except for the headers so I started to work on a script
that would capture the header info of a table with an arbitrary number of 
columns.

Now, most of the examples in our great electronic void of answers seeking
questions deal with specific cases when I wanted something a little more
general so that I can port the solution to differing problem sets.  So out of
my laziness I spent the next 10 hours working on a sql script that will do that.

By 11 some parts of it were working but I was stuck on a part and my all seeing 
left eye was tired.  Due to this problem I went and took out the concavity of
completeness decided to let the windows to my nonexistent soul rest.  Hopefully
in the morning with a fresh right eye a solution would become manifest.

Since I was not sleepy and after hours of chilling with Dre & Big Boi there was
no way I could walk with those bawdy bards to the board of empires.  Even though
they promised me that it would not be TV but HBO.

So in these mean times I closed my eyes and searched for rhymes worth a million
dimes.  Remembering Kasper Hauser I picked Enigma with a shiver of my finger,
which led to the mouse firing its eager trigger.

Now as I laid me down to weep I closed my eyes, my soul to keep,  The music
must have had a spiritual vibe because there were shapes and colours dancing
before my very eyes!  Once again my brain lies!

The last time I experienced something like this was almost 20 years ago.  When
I used to do 200 calculus and physics problems a week I was blessed with 
abstract dreqms.  In my sleep the worldy words about frictional forces,
acceleration's causes took me to the pythagorean plane.  Each problem appeared
out of the mist and would retreat when given a solution with a twist.

This time I did not see code flasshing in my mind's eye.  Instead it was a
mental visualization.  Like turning music into colours via FFTs wavelets of my
conciousness broke tympanum's eardrum. Fancy that rods & cones firing all
because I have a skull and tiny bones!

There I was rocking to a higher feeling gaining insight into my foresight even
with no clock on the wall to be approaching midnight.

Then someone's knock on the door and almost brought me back earth's iron core.
The vision changed to faces in slow rain.

When I heard the chanting "Bitches and Brew! Bitches & Brew! There's enough for
me and you!" I knew my wonderful experience was through.


Peace in the east to my sister that I have seen the least.

A salute to Wayne whose writing should be sung about in paenes.

Props to Shabazz the faithful disciple.  In your knowledge of the nation brook
no rivals.  May you have the pleasure to take a leisurely stroll in foreign
weather when IT schemes help you fulfil your dreams.

Hello
Good morning
Good bye

Jimeta

I'll take Bombay the Hardway

if you will give up the quest for bread.

I now dwell in a land of subprime LATAs

where the battle of carnival lent was suppressed

here the pigs chant mo lu e before they kill and go

The archpoet was no jude Obscure

At my last party I was moaning o this modern world

full of techno, terror, free love,

where ipods uniote and mp3s fight.

in our kampf against god and state

hierachy is the mother of all enemies

caught between the rock and enoch

I pull out the sign of drawing restraint 9

you will not find this in daily sketch

or written as a column advocating peace in the concord

the streets are always raucous when the horns blow

on the flowing achabas

Waiting For The Siren's Call

As I waited for the siren's call
the underbelly of urgency gnawed at my stomach wall.
As I thought of Monday and the email,
 or spoken word from an employer
that either echoes approval of my professional views,
or pans my performance.

Once again I dust my empty suit,
make another pot of coffee
and pace the house in silence.
Restless ennui fills my heart on this
sun filled Sunday.

Earlier I had done an 8K and made golden, granola
and talked with my sister about Boston and the brahmins
who think they own her twisted streets
After my sister left the house is silent.

We went to Annie's so she could remember old times.
Back to boredom now,to much tension to type.
There is nothing I can write as I wait for the siren's call.
Putting on my coat and gloves

I step into the dark blue, haze of cloudy night.
In the sculpture garden the cherry and spoon shine like brand new dimes.
I walk over the blue bridge and look at its lovingly shaped logs.
A savage named Jack Pine came here with his friends from the north.
They came to make this city by the lakes.

But now the economy has changed.
No more construction based on raw human power.
No more warehouses full of flour.
No more riding the rails to Chicago with an empty lunch pail.
I cross the bridge and over the traffic's roar I think of Lavonne some more.

I imagine you sharp on the attack;
spiking the ball into the opponent's court.
You jump float and...
they try to anticipate what your topspin will bring.
But a feint to the left puts the right to the test.
I see you on the beaches of LA
making a bump,
despite the sun, surf & strategy of tension
Lavonne is always ready for receptions.

My chilled fingers are clenched
and I laugh at my old joke on The Wedge.
Past the black leather, biker's  coffee bean store.
I see tattooed sadness drowning dreams of love in dark beer and bitters.
I see hipster's smoking American Spirit in all of irony's feigned nonchalance.
I circle Lake Calhoun like a midnight satellite.
I think of Lavonne and her little dog.

Has she heard Buckshot La Fonque?
What's her stand on US3?
Does she think Fishery Black is just another in the long train of sad, jazz hacks?
I think of your smiling voice & lusciousness.
I don't know the colour of your eyes.
Are they sultry? 
Bemused?
Are they impassive?
On the surface appearing placid,
but underneath you look at things with laughter,
 wear secret smiles,
 have rages & intelligently display a sales agent's wiles.

I hope to stare into your eyes
And we shall look into the abyss of each other's souls
And then come up for air.
Now as I head back home Rembrandt's J'acusse flashes before me.
Speeding cars ignore me.
Winter cyclists bore me.
Drops of snot flow to the frozen snow.
And the moon hides in Minneapolis smog.

It is 3 am when I complete my long frozen tour and step into the door.
I plan my next repast,
filet mignon with asparagus and mushrooms in homemade tomatoes sauce.
Today has become Monday
By civil twilight I will know if I will be enjoying employment's delights.
If my dream is deferred I will continue
to write my story in a book of plans.

Write code so that I can switch from sysadmin to developer mode.
Exercise to get into a triathalon in the cold
Learn to make bread,
listen to Kropotkin when I goto bed.
Learn the politics of dance in the Dakota
listen to Armin van Buuren while I practice headspins.

The Snowboarder's Song

faster, faster, went the speeding, snowboarder.

Doing a five-o-grind that made made the spectators rock 'n roll in their minds.

Working with gravity and other forces he did an ollie that was smooth as butter.

With the snow and the hill he felt such grace

that if he had been catholic he would have

said hail marys during the powdery race.

Traversing past trees,

leaving a wake of flakes he jumped

and thought,

"more tomorrow?"

Those Who Waited For Walt Whitman

With only her raw talent

and cannibalized pieces of her life

she went to the International Bank of First Impressions

for loan of idioms.

She wrote prose which sold for pretty pennies

to hipsters seeking highs from

other people's lives. 

At a reading of her passages

five hundred Buddhists who

were waiting for the return of Walt Whitman

(their bodhisattva) chanted "oohm"

and expired. 

Through the triumph of their communal will

the sacred band

was buried on a barren hill. 

Suddenly it was covered with a

billion leaves of grass.

The Swimmer

I rise from the deep

swimming through a sea of troubles

I move from river to ocean in one smooth, continuous, jerky motion

I glide through the mists as unknown things creep

celebrating the mysteries in my lonely elation