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== DATABASE_CORE // YEAR: 2026 ==
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>>> MONTH: SEPTEMBER_2026
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "Swallow"]
Swallow
He’s fire down my neck
like a swallow of straight rum
the sweet burn down
until I’m dizzy
and time stops
mid breath.
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
Potato hatched roof bins crank loud music over the fields to the streets of the city like a megaphone call for quickly finding your lost mind in the drawers in the cabinet you forgot you owned. Remember? The one in the corner that you mistake for a lamp all the time? Exit the house and touch the ground. There’s coins there sometimes. The music plays on. The sky rolls on on it’s film reel slowly motion moves fast the time ticks faster by half a second. You are wide awake now. See this whole mess? Who did that? You? The government? The universal god? Open the tubberwear lid off your sanity. You are not crazy. This always been here under our noses. The earth slow-claps for your realization. The key to the cabinet broke in the lock. The music churns like a winding down music box. The age cracking in it’s gears shows in it’s tune. My knees do that sometimes now. The ache of time and accidents that gnaw away at cartilage until I come face to face with the old woman I’m becoming. The welcome embrace of extra oatmeal and four hundred a month of cheques made out to me by the government telling me I’m too old for anything. Here’s money and shut up grandma. The ache in my hands as I type the angry letter to tell them, I would have told them to fuck off in my younger days.
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "429"]
429
The old green carpet
apartment hallway floors
that went to your door
the black iron 7
on blonde oak
it didn’t open
You weren’t home
The barrier of the answer
7 used to be a lucky number
but you left there
taking the luck with you
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
Checking out the glass robin egg blue eye cracked like eggshells yoke tears falling like rain
on the ice lake of snow laced banks empty of gold bars and bankrupt vacancies in vaults behind
eyelashes dusting off the years that settle at the corners of your rooms like eye dream dust backed up
hard drives of headlines aging every second the force-fed knowledge you don’t need right now or need to know the money runs out and you have to follow where it goes like a eye rolling down the sidewalk chasing after a dream it never had or known to have but did it once it can’t know because the hard drive is corroded lost memory of dreams and past and what could happen future aching in our bones and teeth that lost how to chew words back and now just ooze from the side of mouths like moths to the screen glow mistaking it all for the moon
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "TOY"]
That was what we trusted.
This object between you and I
what was it?
Who knows.
It knew us though
and what our desires were
when we were young
and the world was simple
It don’t know us now
that we are adults
We forgot what it was
and how it is used
Playing is a forgotten concept
We’re too serious now
and our eyes too opened
no longer lensed with innocence
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
ShhShhShhShh
Shut out the noise. It’s too early in the morning before a coffee where now it’s somehow gone cold due to waiting to wake. The mornings are cool now. When it just seems like a week ago they were too hot. Nothing has a grey scale anymore. Just one or the other. No betweentimes. The hawk watches from the building top across the street. It laughs at us pathetic humans who don’t know the sky. I always write about the sky though. Wanting to be a bird. Wanting to fly into the hum of that blue and grey ozonic rain scent, or honey sun scent world. Though craving quiet, I think I would get none there. Our planes and satellites and other junk could be worse. Sometimes we want what we don’t have, without fully understanding what it could be like. The coffee is like ice. Front porch season isn’t here anymore. It left. I guess it would have been fine if I just drank the coffee when I poured it. Waking up takes longer, the more you sleep in
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "OUTAGE OUTRAGE"]
Do we know
which way to go
when the telephone
poles
trip and tangle
in their lines
breaking our
communication
off leaving
the edges jagged
and razor sharp
to cut your
tongue on
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
Final tablecloth banquet food broke the jaw bones of the eaters. They become food for our thoughts. How cannibalistic. Rain wash off the wine from our lips. You can’t kiss it away if you tried. Our lips left you behind. Sitting at a table so rusted and torn cloths holding nothing back from the surface.
You drink the fly in the wine. He makes a home of you. You are a fly home now. No other purpose to
be at this banquet. Find another before you become a cave to more insects.
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "ABSENCES"]
All the long I told you I would leave
The bags filled for travel
far away from here
where if finally stops snowing
and the sidewalks are not glass
ice slip and trip on cracks
that break backs of mothers
holding onto their children
saying they're so at a loss
And you there
not looking up
forgetting everything I just
told you
Then act surprised when I'm just
a shadow moving across the wall
for the bus station
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
The dictionary has a small cold today, so we must swallow a clock lozenge to ease the rawness of time lost to our hour clock sands. The hours caught their hooks in our eyes, and the second hand virus burrowed in our throats, making all our words cough up nothing but ink and travel logs of memories we just can't remember, but try to explain. What is a memory in the future but anti-memories. The time just floats by us like a fog. Nothing is remembered any more. Mind disease of the loss of NOWNESS. It's a blur. Whirling winds throwing newspapers one after another in our faces, as we walk down the street trying to enjoy the sunlight. We're all so pale from indoor phone screens. Our dictionaries still coughing on the old shelves with runny words leaking out of the sides like snot. We are infections to them. The lamps are not a substitute for sunlight's warmth.
[TRANSMISSION // POEM: "HUSH"]
There was music you almost missed
That floated by from somewhere
almost too faint for the ear
Stop talking
There is more to hear
if you could keep your mout shut
The silences between
car noise
and electric hums
There's something there just
under it all
You can hear them
Birds incantations to the sky
The wind tousling grass hair messy
and cute
The waving leaf hands applauding
the ground
Magic is all around
if you are silent
enough to hear it.
---------------------------------------------
[TRANSMISSION // THE_FLOW]
Don't take my word for it. We are all going upwards and downwards. Rollercoaster ride. But what becomes of it? History's wheels are turning. What comes will come. We are going into a ball of bouncing chimes played by a child who don't know we're in there. But we will stop eventually. Just hold your breath and hold onto to the bars. Children get tired eventually. Mirrors will break. Luck will turn. The film reel jams and snaps. Something will mend it. It takes time to put in the effort. But your area is your control. Do what you want. Make it a pocket of sanctuary in the whirlwinds from outside. Your oasis. Damage will be done, and brace to fix it. You are in control. Never forget the power of your hands, and your soul. Let the world change. Never change your home.