A click away from perfection. (Diary of 00001 Entry # 1. 11-11-11)

In the year 2011 the first successful transplant of a man designed organ took place.

Through a search for perfection,
mankind developed nano-bot biotechnology capable of fulfilling our red blood cell's functions,
we will be replacing them and ourselves by the time the upcoming singularity arrives.

I can see it now.
An open source network of streaming data
filling the air we breathe, like pixels spark tv,
too fast for the initial burst of color to be seen,
but lasting enough for all of us to enjoy.

Astronomy will become geography as we take to space
in haste, by the masses. According to my history classes
we'll move west, we'll kill and convert savages in the name of civilization
and what's best for all.

The expiration date of all diseases is getting closer
with each crack researchers take at our DNA.
Close is the day upon which we'll have the option between life and death.
And by then, I fear, all that was human will have left our breath,
branding us under a new label; Human +
We will be called such after human augmentation kicks our evolutionary sequence into hyper speed.
We'll be half human - half machines,
if not more machine than human...
perhaps super human....?
but a creature that's most definitely alien.

I'm just saying;
Provided there's good bandwidth
we'll be able to download languages
to our head's central processing units as we please.
A deluge of information
ready for seamless, wireless, synchronization
from a server to our head's OS will be
but a mental click away.
I'm sure hackers won't delay in committing the first ever digital rapes.
They will enter victims databases uninvited,
ripping through digi-innocence, like a saw does to wood.
They'll cut, copy and paste viruses into our digi-blood stream,
and we won't remember how to unplug.

An upcoming zombie apocalypse has begun to creep
from science fiction into my reality,
ridding me of comfort, tranquility, and peace.
My roommate looks at me
and says; "you're cynical."
He tells me to worry not of the direction or duration of our present techno organic odyssey.
Through a half whisper/ sigh I ask
"where does our dependency on technology stem from?
It is hard for me to see."He takes a sip of his rum and repeats,
"you're cynical." All ailments will be trivial,
repairing behavior and any other psychological traits will be a mental click away.

Just one click to delete our insecurities...

But what of our impurities?

As I pace round our kitchen I tell him,
I'm 25 going on 26 still unable to decode what being a good man is all about.
Answers are in drought, and though that definition may forever be concealed
I would rather die imperfect human than to spend infinity
in the life flux of Human +

I have issues that at times compress me into a figure so small
that atoms could be suns, but there's no greater joy than being the hand
that makes those issues come undone,
So let me feel,
life slapping me in the face,
Let me taste,
the lessons brought by my mistakes,
and let me drink the joy that comes with each brand new day.

Roommate looks at me and says,
"Yo' that's mad gay."

When did we all become quick fix junkies?
When did we opt not to work out our problems,
but make them disappear? Eyes do more than see,
ears do more than hear, and in that same sequential burning of smarticles,
I realize that being alive and living are two different things. So...

What happens to our spirit
if we drag our inner obstacles into recycle bins?
What of our essence?
Fast-forward our present 100 years into the future.
Will we still fall in love or
will the nano bio bots deduce who's to be our single part of two?
I'm sure they can love too, but not like we do,
with the reckless abandonment and surrender so characteristic of organic pre-singularity humans.
And I ask, what of passion?
What of talent?

How do we genetically replicate the swag with which Biggie worked meters,
the melted butter voice of Cee-Lo,
the lyrical wit in Lauryn Hill's reflections, but most important,
What genetic algorithm will we input into a mother's board
to program her affection?

We're seeking perfection at a cost that's higher than I can afford,
trade or barter for. Intelligent design will end up conceptualizing us all,
and though my worries lay decades away
it may as well be a year, month, week, or day
because we're but a mental click away from renouncing our nature and inner beauty,
the duty to our question mark of a maker.
She gave us choice and we chose to make Ipods and HD tvs,
anarchists cookbooks, but no manuals to teach us to say please.
Do you laugh or shake your head when you see what we've become?
Quick fix junkies killing each other with guns and words that pain just the same.

You gave us choice
and we're choosing to design nano eye bot proyectors that will blast
images, ads, messages and infobursts.
We'll choose to surf the web with our heads,hack diseases and our neural network -
leaving our brains with no work to complete without the help of the cumulative conscious processing nodes.

We're choosing to have brains that can't work on their own...

You gave us choice and we're choosing not to think,
observe, love, listen or live organically,
the few of us that do so loudly,
like Lennon and King, often meet an ill fate.
They spoke of something more than anyone cared to listen to,
and of them only words remain.

My roommate looks at me and asks me not to dismay
Perfection is but a mental click away,
so they say.

Girl from a liquor store.

The day I met her, cupid tried to be a prankster.
Either confused or inspired,
With confidence he fired an arrow that had a poisonous tip.
High above the arrow split
Air, tracing a parabola,
From point A pranksters bow
To point B, me,
Under its vertex, she appeared.

(And) She appeared quite perfect.
Arrow landed point blank on its target
And she stood out to me;
Like the first flower to stretch its limbs
Towards the sun, so that it can color spring,
Like peace on a morning
Animated by birds that hover and sing,
She stood out to me.

She knows magic.
I know this because whenever she's nearby,
butterflies find their way inside my stomach,
They fly up and down, sometimes round,
Always melting when she smiles or frowns,
She is magic.

She is a fairy tale princess
around which luscinias sing and fly.

I looked into her eyes one day
And saw their colors change,
From green to brown and green again,
As the sound of bottles,
Being placed inside of a brown paper bag,
Awoke me to hear her sigh;
"Forty seven fifty five."
Quite perfect, she appeared.

Beauty works as a cashier in a liquor store
Somewhere in Brooklyn, New York.
Somewhere across the street,
Cupid drinks,
Pulling pranks and tricks on fools like me
That plant seeds on grounds
Bound to make your blood pump break.
Sincere and clueless, so I have faith;
If god made and showed me her face
There must be a reason;
Other than me playing the part of a buffoon
Whose heart pumps beats to the tune of a voice,
That makes another man rejoice, when it sings.

Cupid should have known
That Beauty had a king
Before he pulled the bow's string,
but he knew,
He knew Beauty had a king,
because he tied them together.
So if he's her king,
then she's his queen,
And I am just a jester.
Just a pawn.
Unwillingly playing the part of dreamer,
And hopeless romantic, paying the consequences
For cupids antics and idea of recreation.

I'm stationed,
Like a candle slowly burning
with a spherical tip, in the solace
And darkness of space.
I'm attempting to catch her out in the stars.
I'm stretching myself beyond the limits
Of the water based case that is my body
To catch a star
And the beauty
My mother sees me with in her dreams.

I'm trying to catch a fairy tale princess,
Who is also a magician, but unfortunately,
Someone else's queen.
I'm trying to catch a star
That gravitates beyond me.

Cupid shot three arrows,
And a part of me regrets the third,
had to land on me,
because I comprehend,
That karma works within a deeper span of time
than I have or understand.

I'm trying to touch a star,
Though it will surely burn my hand.

The day I met her, cupid tried to be a prankster.
Either confused or inspired,
With confidence he fired an arrow that had a butterfly tip.
High above the arrow split
Air, tracing a parabola,
From point A pranksters bow
To point B, me.

She appeared beneath the parabola's vertex,
and still, she seems quite perfect.

ih-tur-ni-tee

This is the story of a girl,
a girl who collected toys and played with them
while making noise,
in her bed she wasn't coy,
she was more blunt than a club to the head,
her smile, her toys were fed
as she wound them up to let them loose,
to dance in circles chasing her smell,
intoxicated by her scent and her spell,
her stories became their Duracells
and one day she forgot to charge their batteries.
The better part of them now gather dust
as they rust in a non existent closet
with other forgotten toys.
They all call her regret,
through hushed sounds their thoughts concur,
though their eyes have never met.
Dove came with strings,
to them she attached her toys limbs,
and moved them to and fro at the sigh of a breath.
Her eyes, a black abyss
through which one toy crept out of,
escaping through an eye socket,
Sliding down the ridge of her nose,
extending its arms to hold her lips,
because they were sweet and because they spat razors;
to think that they praised her.
She coreographed a dance and they would swing from the hips,
in a trance, playing to save her.
They made themselves sinners, and her a winner.
Looking for something
where there was nothing
their hands have formed blisters
that resemble the volcanoes inside
their chests, ready to erupt the hate she left in her place.
They gather dust as they rust
burning the last remaining images of her face.
Battery's dead, and now she is too.

Ode to Guillermo (the virus, the dancer, the mexican, the god)

I'm physically woken up by your alarm,
7:30 sharp.
My consciousness can escape la cumbia from the box,
but the broken hymn that escapes your straining back,
it cannot.

The sun that warms me, as I sit and sip my morning tea,
is the violent witness that saw you leave-
home, a mango and an avocado tree, piojo the dog-
and your loved ones behind, as you came up north to find
an unspoken promise of a better life.

You packed a thousand stories, a dozen pictures
and as many hugs and kisses. Under the cover of darkness
you left and saw it all fade in the distance.
I would imagine that pictures and calls
bless you with their grace. At times as I'm
on my way home; I see you leaving work
ready to start your inebriated tango/walk up our block,
always at a steady pace.
I realize, from a seat on a bus,
that still frames and calls just aren't enough.
So you hit the bottle, and make the sidewalk
your dance floor, sipping cuervo, patron, cerveza or ron.
Telling it how it feels to walk where you reside,
and never fully make it home.

As you lift milk crate boxes, and your boss watches
for strawberries that may find their way into your mouth
I ask myself how does guillermo live in that house?
That empty space within four walls...
What of the avocado and mango trees you've left in your backyard?
Do you miss them as they miss you?
Piojo y los muchachos
Do you miss them as they miss their absent father?

My curiosity by silence must abide.
Id like to ask but I hate to bother.
I've seen dry flesh tears escape your eyes,
when asked about the distance.
So I let my curiosity fade into the back of my mind without persistance,
like home faded from your sight, the night you left it all behind.

Silence became the last string attached to sanity.
I've picked this much up. As have your torn blacktop converses,
whose flapping sole and few holes in silence persist
so that brand new kicks can arrive in the form of a kiss,
at your children's feet as they are needed.
Your rugged and torn, dirty and worn
blacktop converses in silence persist
to let your children know
their father exists and that their every need is thought of
and will be met, but nothing tangible can help them comprehend
why papa left.

A country formed on the efforts of immigrants,
threatens to expulse you, as if you were a virus.
They call you illegal alien, as if you arrived from another planet,
as if your body didn't hold approximately 5-6 liters of blood,
as if your eyes did not blink about 22 times a minute,
as if you never looked up, with tears in your eyes,
as we all have in a moment of helplessness and desolation,
like a starless sky painted on a lonely night.

Guillermo,
Citizen of nowhere,
refugee of no place,
this ode is for you.
If you feel as if a part of you died
when you began your odyssey up north,
I give you this poem, it's an attempt
to immortalize you through words.
This, is a sculpture made to honor you
and your permanent light brown tan,
because you're a god, in your own right,
waltz/walking among man.

Pariguayo

I wrote this poem for those of us who stare at our cigarettes smoke themselves;
This is for the dreamers.
For those of us who run with our eyes closed,
without fear of regret.
Be mesmerized by the swirling clouds of smoke,
but don't burn away with your cigarettes.

I wrote this poem for those who lock themselves with planted feet behind open doors;
For those who clip their wings,
before the fat lady sings.
Spread them wide!
You have to take a few steps,
before you can fly.

For those, who don't smile whole heartedly,
because they're scared to show the gaps between their teeth.
Stretch you lips!
Wide - from one side, to the other,
know your smile's worth.
Like the rays from the sun, hurrying each morning to touch the earth.
Your smile too can provide warmth.

I sat alone in a hotel,
as I attempted to write this poem.
Nothing in my head, but a self conflicting brain,
that's half analytical, half emotional, and certainly insane,
And at the time empty.
Desolate, like Wyoming.
My mind, addicted to roaming,
afflicted by the stoning of dreams before they start
and ideas left in the dark, for no one to see.
Time rusts and rots - don't let your fruits get sour.
I wrote this for the cowards,
being devoured by the guilt of not doing what's right,
every passing hour.

I wrote this for you.
Cowards and dreamers, be do'ers.
Rise yourself up from the sewers,
and begin to liven your canvass.
Life is a garden, and you're a gardener.
We're all architects.
Build a dome to the metronome of your heart beat,
seek your will and shake it where it sleeps.
Mold your goals into soaring steel structures,
keep working until they reach the skies,
and tickle god's feet.

I wrote this for me,
and my poems. Those streams of consciousness and color.
Aching to acquire my dreams a word at a time.
This is for the rhymes, that orgasm along with my ears,
and this is also for my fears.
For the courage that walked me to this stage,
on which my stomach cramped and my vision swayed.
For the courage that walked me to this stage,
on which my agitated insides started to scream;
No matter how far, you're only steps away from your dreams.

Space Cadet

I wanted go for a walk on the moon,
but got distracted by a three eyed harlot
that whispered through the monsoon.

Her origins I never questioned,
I was hypnotized by her evolving first impression.

She was a foreign blotch of orange,
a heroine splattered on the floor.
She said her name was Lucy,
As she invited me to see,
underneath her dress. There, she said,
a forest hides a fruit, which upon a bite
puts you in a trance, you'll dream of a caress,
through which you could possess,
the orange damsel in distress.

As she spoke I took in a deep breath of life
through the sound of thumping tamboras.
Through snow hands made way, attempting to console her.

But I lost myself in the rapture of her voice,
the light of her glow, her head without a face,
and the warmth of her embrace.
She sung songs in the key of sorrow,
as she moved.

How she moved.
Hips punishing the air,
occupying space with her silk scarlet hair.
Gravity defying breasts, diamond eyes, and lips,
upon which a kiss, this space cadet felt blessed.

Foreign blotch of orange,
let me drink your tears underneath the stars.
Lets dance on water, we can change the tides,
if we barter with sun, space, and skies.
Don't take too long, no one on this rock has time,
and even beauty with time, expires.

Upon my request she began to fade away.
My voice erupted and it called her name
long after she disappeared, whether she was real
or not still remains unclear, but wherever I see orange,
I wish she'd reappear.

Vitta

To live,
is merely an instinctive act.
To be alive.
Therein lies true rebellion.
Active in defying bliss,
locking lips,
in an eternal kiss,
with the singing trees and the soothing breeze;
Where whistling winds whisper and everything the sun touches,
is a brother and sister.
Where green is the vibration of the omni-present om.
Where green is more,
than the color of a scene.
And home is wherever you rest your feet.
Wherever earth may dirty you
and that dirt is worn
like the threads
with which your body is adorned,
worn with pride - there you are alive.