A Sight to Be Held...

He's a 1950's advertisement for the future, this boy.

In one pocket, a device that links him to friends and family;

just a push of a button!

In another, a two-pound slab that carries every piece of music the boy owns.
In another

(This boy's pants, they're the height of efficency, designed by the military itself),

a folding screen,
hours of entertainment inside.
His eyes see the world through bulletproof plastic,
ground to a curve so precise, it takes a laser to know it curves at all
Eyes that can be as bright and green as the warmest lagoon,
but most days, grey as the sea with the clouds that lay behind them
in a mind split apart,
so it can care for him,
so his right hand can play a piano,
but not his left.
Still young enough,
his country doesn't even afford him all an adult's rights,
but he's sure he knows his future,
sure he knows
that every one he loves goes away.
All the promise that the future of this future he advertises can hold
waiting for him to be the change he wants to see,
but still that damning voice
that shackles him to all the abandonments
of the past
speaking every language this boy knows,
to scratch that heart inside him that he
knows is black as coal
and
prays that pressure and hellfire
have made
into diamond.

a sitcom moment

In boxers and bed-head, Tim tromped groggily downstairs. The unmistakable scrape of Joy Behar's voice scratched at the air from the living room. Eyebrow raised, Tim peered around the corner to see Kevin, bowl of Lucky Charms beside him, legal pad in hand, watching The View.

"Dude," Tim grumbled, scratching his forehead, "what are you doing?"

Kevin scribbled something on the pad as the studio audience burst into applause. "Recon."

Tim squinted at his roommate for six seconds, then turned and stumbled for the kitchen.

"Hey," Kevin called around a mouthful of cereal, "I got tickets for The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants at 3."

Tim groaned. "That's way too deep in enemy territory."

"You can't airstrike love!" Kevin shouted, shaking his spoon.

"Mrrf."

Inside Out

how can it be easy to write when you have this little demon sitting/lurking over your shoulder?



coffee breaks. indeed.