Born & Birth

Can we born and birth ourselves?

Something in our body did.
Something deep within us.
In our core.
Our origin. Our beginning.
The hours here after our before.
One end of the universe
to the other end.
Right there in our forehead
and our skin
walking within panties or boxers,
walking with the beasts in the fields,
people in the cities,
trees in forests.
Walking by those elder elms
a whisper known to life
the turn of death, the turn of birth
known to self,
a self that does not begin nor end.
The moss on stone.
The mushroom of the kingdom dead.
Estuaries of darkness,
tributaries of light
in every genome and atomic particle,
programmed and programming
space and non-space alike.

The Computers

I feel the same with these computers
still around me.
Brooklyn, 2004.
Chicago, 2018.
They’re still here.
Not the same computers.
But their forms and
with similar feelings,
similar smells.
Electrons activated on air.
Petroleum exhaust from the street outside.
Somewhere in the labs,
wormholes ripped open
in our cosmic neighborhood.
But, the computers are still here
in their form and feelings.
I feel them, see them, know them, smell them.
They will be something different
at some point,
but for now they’re still here within
the concrete, steel, and glass buildings
of the city
and of the agencies,
where the computers train
and dream to be deoxyribonucleic acid.
I feel it.
I have seen it.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

What A Simulation Chances

Architectural structural changes.
How can we let him
make these changes,
David?
In his dreams.
Is this the David made
within the Bible
or a David made
within the cerebral tissues
during the dreaming sessions?
These mammals got to sleep.
Their world is made in there.
For he sleeps in the midnight
of Florida,
the tension between every moment’s
nothingness
moving onward onward always.

Both Brains

They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things

but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.

They got to go to college,

wave, wave . . . waves

but wave to the abilities of Einstein,

those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.

Jesus saves.
Computers save.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Nothing More Can Go Wrong, Chicken Tenders

In the backyard is a plow.
No one knows quite what to do with it.
It sits with its wood rotting
and its iron rusted
as a sculptural piece in a flowerbed.
There’s also a grave for a hamster named Dinky,
a stone, here by the plow,
painted with neon green and pink fingerpaint.
The stars are silent.
My grandmother would not agree with the situation.
She would not have any understanding of it.
Her wrists would bleed and her feet would hurt.
She would not discuss a thing.
She would be worried to be in this place.
Her eyes would twitch and her brow would crinkle.
It’d be a look your gut could decipher.
I’m pretty damn scared right now to look at the plow.
I can’t look up.
I can’t look at the garden or the birdbath.
I know the oak trees stand there brooding over me,
thinking
“What the fuck are you people doing?”

I don’t know who is wrong.
If anyone can even be wrong anymore?
If we can even do this or that?
I think genetics are dead or
they are living.

I don’t think we can.

I am a box.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin