nycstreetpoet

To my fanbase, or lack thereof:
NEW SHIT.


Transpacificista

Make a hole with a gun perpendicular
To the name of this town in a desktop globe
Exit wound in a foreign nation
Showing the home of the one this was written for
-They Might Be Giants, Ana Ng

You are in a distant land, a place called Asia.
I would need to soar across the sky, by way of wings, naturally evolved or mechanically constructed.
I would use these wings, whether I could afford or grow them, and appear beside you.
The name, your name is Nadia.
N- A - D - I - A.
On your side of the world, the characters look different, but the sound is the same,
the tone, the pitch.
Whether tenor or soprano, a G will always be a G. There is nothing lost in translation, it is a universal language of sound.
That, sweet Nadia, is where you and I converge. It is the place where what I feel and think is transmitted to you in a language you can easily decipher and digest; every cogent thought you dream up and transmit to me is instantly understood and solicits from me specific emotions, as though you were before me physically, realer than you already surely are.
I do not know if transpacificista is a word in any language,
but in my mind it means one from across the Pacific.
The one I speak of, she has a name.
It always sounds the same.
N A D I A.
Nadia.

* * *

The creeping kudzu of communication has sprawled across impossible lengths,
wormed its way through the earth, into the oceans fathomless depths!
It blindly clawed its way to dizzying heights, infesting our world of metal spires.
Snaking on and into everything:
everything we say, everything we do, every breath we breathe
is being transmitted through the electromagnetic synapses of the ether between us.
It aspires to be like the satellites; stalwart and stoic in their endless, obsessive orbit.
Its fate is to crawl,
to take root and seep its way into our homes, manipulating the modem to accommodate itself to our environment.
We are bound to it: www.slaves.com.
We can feel the weeds burrowing into our flesh,
weaving its tentacles into our spinal cords and poisoning our brains
with the radioaddictive trill of the connection.
We embrace it:
we turn on the box and we respond to the stimuli it feeds us.
But we dont grow as it does;
we allow the ivy to consume us, to cover us like
a clusterfuck of bees.
It binds us with effortless ease;
were too busy watching a quartet caterwaul while dancing on treadmills to care.
There is no more summer.
No high noon.
We are winterless, no harvest moon.
We are the captured.
The bug has bitten us.
The bells are ringing. We hear the sound. We answer the call and log on.

* * *

-Jordan