Therefore

on the bright side of the bus
she was alone and cold
worried and stoned
laid bare to public transport
though i only understand her exposure months later
when the narrative closed unceremoniously,

as will the pool in autumn. she died

and i was alive-

a reader with a username

i knew i recognized her dimples and sweaty black bangs-

our buses used to go to the same summer camp, back where
the secret power of affected naivete was yet undiscovered
and every morning was filled with thrilling discipline
and bandy-legged intrigue

the girls from morning round-up who once held so much mystique

are now married, or pregnant, or both
running into them in random places of commerce
there is confusion, and i feel like i am trying to bridge a large distance,
speaking about the events and circumstances of life
with rock patterns and smoke signals
while all around, in The Cloud, web handles and networks collide and co-mingle,

and handheld devices and the all-too human multi-task one another into orgasm and sleep

the past is a question of pixels and storage capacity and instantly loaded rationalizations

and with this thought I got off the bus

now these thoughts float darkly in bubbles above former selves

before sleep she reappears on an PPT slideshow beyond closed eyelids

and is absorbed in the facile warp and weave of

memory's cheap embroidery

was this a foregone conclusion?

must we bring a cold 'therefore' to every small town newspaper death?

burning silent judgment and a thousand dead words of sympathy?

it seems a shameful and cheap ritual

maybe there was a time when

i would have believed in a
mathematical proof for virtue
or in the verities of other people
but growing older can make you suspicious

and possibly republican
certain things sound suspicious
‘good intentions’ ring hollow and ominous
and so one turns inward

while salesman and cult leaders

get a platform for talking coherent systems

full ranges and completions for things incomplete

for everyone else, it's no secret

new planets will appear in the sky
new dinosaurs will be pulled from the ground
wholeness longs for absence,

voice demands no voice,

stagecraft helps itself

and progress, Stalin-esque, steps forward

safely above the droppings of our samsara drift

history eats itself, hero by hero

with the reader in charge, complicit to plot

who now sits in the yard on a wicker settee, under a clear moon,

and memory a killing field of poignant, static victims

and with them we are vicariously alive

and with them we get stoned

and time after time
run out to catch the bus

without a warm coat


--bo knutson

Therefore

on the bright side of the bus
she was alone and cold
worried and stoned
laid bare to public transport
though we only understand her exposure years later
when the narrative closed neatly as an autumn pool-
she died and i was alive, a reader with a username

i knew i recognized her dimples and sweaty black bangs-

our buses used to go to the same summer camp, back where
the secret power of affected naivete was yet undiscovered
and every morning was filled with thrilling discipline
and bandy-legged intrigue

where the girls from morning round-up who once held so much mystique
are now married, or pregnant, or both
when i talked to them in random indeterminate meeting places
there was confusion, and i feel like i am trying to bridge a large distance,
speaking the events and circumstances of a life
with rock patterns and smoke signals
while in in The Cloud web handles and networks collide and co-mingle,

and handheld devices and the all-too human multi-task one another into orgasm or sleep

memory is a question of pixels and storage capacity and instantly loaded rationalizations

and with this thought I got off the bus

now let these thoughts of her appear on an ADD/PPT slideshow

and darkly float in bubbles above former selves

and these thoughts which kept me occupied

were absorbed in the facile warp and weave of

memory's cheap embroidery

was this a foregone conclusion?

must we bring a cold 'therefore' to every small town newspaper death?

burning silent judgment and a thousand dead words of sympathy?

it seems a shameful and cheap ritual

maybe there was a time when
i would have believed in a
mathematical proof for virtue
or in the verities of other people
but growing older can make you suspicious

and possibly republican
certain things sound suspicious
‘good intentions’ ring hollow and ominously
and so one turns inward

while salesman and cult leaders

get a platform for talking coherent systems

full ranges and completions for things incomplete

for everyone else, by now it's no secret new planets will appear in the sky
and new dinosaurs will be pulled from the ground
wholeness longs for absence,

voice demands no voice,

stagecraft helps itself

progress, Stalin-esque, steps forward and leaves its the victims behind for history

and our history is eating itself, hero by hero,

with the reader in charge, hero complicit to plot

now the reader sits in the yard on a wicker settee, under a clear moon,

and memory a killing field of poignant, static victims

and with them we are vicariously alive
and with them we get stoned

and time after time
run out to catch the bus

without a warm coat

Tenleytown Fix

"Sometimes I am blessed, I am just blessed, to receive premonitions of my own identity--like 'oh, this is who I am,'" I said, forcing myself on the dinner party repartee like a Peugot cutting off a Lexus. And "Like- I just wasn’t meant to wear polyester. So, we don’t live in a natural world, but more and more...."

I paused, and went for the blue tortillas. Dave quickly picked up the slack, and began speaking about a mutual acquaintance’s job prospects. I shot a searching glance to the golden retriever lying obediently athwart the hearth of the fireplace and refilled my drink.

"So you get this fake version. The rest of us, sure, can get by, I’m only concerned about those who don’t accept the nature of reality that's fed to us by pernicious, bottom-feeding media outlets that just reinforce..."

A phone rang. I waited to see who would pick it up.

--Anders Sh. Mandersson

Requiem

Throat of the robin, fried on an iron skillet, dusted in fennel-
But where was King?
Milling the marble, footsteps echo, in a place between death and yesterday.
Knit-browed and faltering to resolve his tumescent valor with the
shrill population, smitten with rebates and cheating the bottom line

He knows they can knuckle and claw their way up the once-geologic incline
What can he do? cut and appear
cots and illustrious blankets with minimal frequency
Now clear the victims away

As the day recedes, he hedges his bets, feeding addiction to the self
of which there are further ramifications, as
events, thoughts appear to him as pixels of a horizon:

I want to be on the dollar bill

--Anders Sh.Mandersson

Itinerary for Mark Ruffalo

Sometimes it is necessary to jump
the turnstiles and make for the shuttle before the afterburners
reach a safe temperature. Here’s the deal:
You go years and don’t think of love.
The castles and intimate monuments
Of youth moulder, administered by
The sad truth that sometimes
Seeing is the only way to remembering.
What is elastic fissures. The new girl- will she pan out?
People are on your side, Mark Ruffalo.
“Belief is not only for the believers”-
something you learned. Something
you told to a friend, over clay oven bread, in tin foil,
in a cold spring, just before closing time,
in somebody’s hometown.

--Anders Sh. Mandersson