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The Little War

 

The heart cannot speak. The stomach cannot see. The kidney cannot hear. The liver cannot taste. The eyes cannot feel. They lack.

 

In this little war, the speed of the eye is null and akin to nothing.  No one knows this.

 

Still, it theorizes,

                                        

 

 

of this.

 

Together, we do not move or forage or forest.  Reader, what do you know of muteness? Of the world so strange and of the haunt of numbers?                                 

                                                                                                                           

I want

to know what you carry

                                                                        …there…

 

(if it is a key,   give it.)

 

It feels like a battle. A hidden one. A hidden, little, one. Subtle-like, where my feet do not leave prints. The air does not capture my breath. My hair does not hit the floor, it flies up to a tree where it harvests a nest for someone/thing else.  Nothing shoots. Nothing loads. No thing screams, but I know something inside wants.

 

I don’t know what is beneath the exterior, or  the virtual. I am losing.  Alignment is losing. Thought is losing. Feeling is latching to some thing some where.

                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                What happened to the story?

when?

What happened to the tale?

how?

Say that someone, somewhere knows.

reach.

 

                        Reach me.      

 

© Umansky 2012

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Actually, I’ve decided it’s a good thing to be off

because I’m tired of being on but I know

certainly, IT will find me, in the thick

downing white wine on a night where I’m boogying to the music

everywhere and it will be enough; it will be

forgettable in an unforgettable way; in the most

gorgeous way, because I will hold it with my

hands; hold it by the seat of its pants and

I will love it to the ground. First, in envy, and then in

jealousy. I will bash its brains out; I will

kill it; make it late for supper; give it a wedgie; I will

laugh in its face and kick it in the nuts. Being

mean will feel soooo good – finally – and in time, I’m sure,

nostalgia will settle on our couch like a dear

old friend; and we will laugh at the way I gave it a

purple eye; and we will hold each other close; and

quiet those later-demons; those sullen misfits

rapturing up the past like a bulldozer in the morn;

sullied in my remembering, I will invite this chaos in for

tea, but I digress, I won’t suppress,  now, back to the beating. It will

unequivocally deserve what it gets after leaving me: fielded. Alone.

vaulting my heart up to any star’s arms, any star’s hungry fangs.

won’t it feel good to start blood from your nose; to

ex-communicate you from your shenanigans; and show

you how sorry you’ll be for missing what I’ve had to give all these years.

“ZOUNDS!” you’ll say; and then you’ll give us a kiss that was way overdue.

 

© Umansky 2012

 

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Connecting

                                               

This is where we are now and the audience participates     

We throw apples, oranges, bananas and pears. (Knives, sometimes, too)

We aren’t really starting fires; if we are, they aren’t real fires.

 

We villainize others, at times, but it’s usually in jest. Do you know those   

villains were really just country-folk and that our intentions then sour?

This is where we are now and the audience participates.

 

The way the flames start is through niceties and like-ings and

the things that empower our spirit like sparkings and spunk.

(we aren’t really starting fires; if we are, they aren’t real)

 

When we participate it’s a given-charity, like lamplight or sky.

The agency is good and the activity is fresh. Life moves. Be ready.

This is where we are and the audience packs their bags and hops on.

 

They can enter any car to any destination, screaming choo choo with the rest.

It is gingering and relieving and near-ambulatory to say what you mean,

how you mean it. These aren’t real fires; it’s just private campgrounds.

 

And sometimes others interfere. They want to join your pack;

they want to add to your ghost-story; throw shadows into the

campfire and put the fire out before dawn. This is where we are

now and you don’t want to be left out. Gather round, here.

                                                                                                            Now.

© Umansky 2012

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On a scale of 1- 10 where do you fall in your ways with the world:

                                   

                                    1 = a  [like]

                                    3 = a [follow] of a blog or tumblr

                                    5 =  an exchange of digits or emails

                                    10 = physical contact: a kiss, a hug (or more )

 

What side of the spectrum are you ? Are we really that hard to read?  I’m so sincere: it’s like I could just open up my vein and say, here, take.

 

All the messages I send are accurate: I don’t need the alliterations or jargon.

 

We are all just blood and guts;

[except the web.]

 

My heart runs around in its own operating system of attentiveness.

 

Love has become a cross-cultural signature. I sometimes opt for the as I only use “Love” when I mean it.  It’s complicated and we Xerox the hell out of our expressions.  I don’t want it to lose its signifying grace.

 

Watch me climb to the top of this social tower. I dig my feet into all the titillating rituals we have; I grab on with the meat of my hands and I push off.

 

                                                                                                                The reining-in is all mine,

so who cares about the social network.

 

*

 

                                                 “Why aren’t they friending me?”

                                                “Women tweet more than men;”

                                                “Technology is killing intimacy”

                                                “The Internet breeds predators”

 

 

Yes, nothing comes from nothing, so realize that no thing is to blame. If you think this intimacy is false, then enjoy that chip on your shoulder; you can get “off the line” anytime you want

                        [step aside people; step aside]

 

            but I; I feel heightened.  I love what has become. 

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Once upon a time there was a light that wasn’t

an ordinary light, but a machine that brought

this all together in unimaginable ways

and brought units of meaning to everyone

through a set of code.  It carried people

from one place to another in a “non-space”

called The Internet. People developed their

sharps and dulls and delighted in the distance.

 

©Umansky 2012

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It’s a wonderful world of the electric & eclectic.

This link is a doorway or path

that leads to my personal network.

In my online community, I am funny and kind, sarcastic

& self-deprecating. (even now, I am being genuine about

something that could turn from casual to caustic).

Sure, I unlike when my fancies flounder, and I

de-friend when I feel someone has crossed my frame

& I LOVE that Google knows “me” – I thrive on that

“connection” (even if it is forced by those little-marketing men.)

Who I am at this moment may shift in its

charges, but we are all bigger than this World Wide Web.

Life is fast. You can refresh whenever you want,

but I’m someone who loves to shuffle.

 

© Umansky 2012

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The Drip

“Drip for me; I’m here. I’m waiting for you. He rubs his head against its silver shine. He rubs his head along her shiny, glossy hair.  He rubs his body along her cool, white skin. Please, he pleads.   He’s waiting for her watery love.

I watch him stare up at her silver face. His body twists and turns in her porcelain arms. (Is he crying? Is he broken-hearted?) He calls out to her.  There is no reply. I feel for him. She will not be coming for him. The train has passed.  He howls and throws himself down along the floor. His dark grey stripes, his small pink nose, his long white whiskers, all echo with a small bit of grief.  I wish I could know what he thinks of his situation.  I have broken his heart.

                                        (Does he know what I have done with the plumber?)

                                                                       

The Fish Wife

This must be how the Fish-Wife feels, thinks the cat, when her beloved has been swept away by life’s delightful bait.   She must wait, amongst the waves for him. She must cry her salt-tears and weave her seaweed song. How does she find the strength not to catapult herself out of the waters, out above the sea, to walk on her own fins and find her beloved? The mind is stronger than the body, thinks the cat.  She plays this same game.  She has hope.

 

The Kiss

I pick him up, wrap his soft stomach in my arms. His small cat-head rests on my shoulder.  I’m sorry, I say¸ we were getting ants and  I had the faucet fixed.  I put him down. He rubs his head against my leg, then stretches his body up along the kitchen cabinet until he is standing up on his hind legs.   I still love you¸ I imagine him saying.  I place him on my bed. I put last night’s pajamas around him and his eyes slowly close. He’s purring. He’s happy. He’s dreaming of the bathtub faucet’s kiss. He moans. He’s entering the first circle of grief.

© Umansky 2012

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In the would-be version, a hero, an enduring symbol, or a brazen-patriotism is needed. Our words would fertilize the land and our breath would act as a blood-bank for the future of lore. If there is no Good vs.Evil, then there’d be no actual confirmation for greatness. We’d have, but our own small hearts to listen to.

 

 

 

There is a fear of contradicting.

As the story goes, the dynamo

 

provides what he sees fit. The percreta feeds

one life to the next.   I want to be that.

 

I want you, to be nourished. 

I want a shifting of place in your chest.

 

The real danger is sport. 

The most romanticized sport:         Love.

 

 

 

And I want something to rally about

 

when coming to shove.                     The believing is pure-like: you do,

                                                                                                                       

                                                                                                             you don’t, you do,

 

you don’t, you do, you don’t,         you

 

                                                                                    have the final whistle,

 

the final call,                                                                                      the final sip.

 

Pull yourself together. This is more powerful than myth.

© Umansky 2012

 

 

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We were the midwife to this digital world

memory led to data which eclipsed that of the noun

and verb. We looked to stored programs of sequence.

 

Read: coded; simulations; quantities, integers.

The speed of memory crudely carries data: our data.

It mingles arithmetic with reason and doubling.

 

Turning the Non into the Real rephrases power

into something brimming with curiosity. Any

maniac of this world could get it running,

 

could modestly ascertain that the modern world need

not be more modern. Bread and butter need not be

more than bread and butter. When power sleeps,

 

change is dreaming in the centrifuge. One curious integer

remembers a cable, a fuse, a fission or a fusion and together

they surf the very capable contents of our calculations.

 

We get the wide world up and running. We say we are lucky

to be in on it and that we love what the world gives us, but we might

be dressing a monster; impending a language, or programming havoc.

 

The fault is history’s.

 

© Umansky 2012

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People are moving towards another and an

other; towards a re-awakening delight.

           

            Using techniques of the automatic; I can say:

            this is as beautiful as chance.

 

Think of the reclining nude as traditional

as reinventing light                 through ligaments        

through flesh.

 

*

 

We fasten our inners to our outers; outers to our inters all to

enter the electrified common room of common life. (leave your

shoes at the door).

 

                                                           

We are:

                                                                our bodies

our meetings

our minds

our hits

our counts

our printings

our data

our art

our thoughts

our gestures

our need

our need

our need

 

 

Our need

© Umansky2012

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