Remote Observations

Poetry

[remoteo]

Inverted

From the second floor of a Google Bus Driving through the streets of San Francisco I look down on the lower half of a man He is digging through a large dumpster His feet are splayed up in the air He's searching for treasure I don't think he'll find any He's unaware of me Safe and warm in my passing bus I recline my seat Happy to not be him.

[remoteo]

This is all that's left

I stumbled upon a poem written in sand In a dream I had the other night It was so beautiful it made me cry And it was attributed to my favorite author In the dream, I realized I was asleep And the words weren’t written by him But rather, they came from me I was amazed I could make something so wonderful My heart swelled with pride And then my alarm clock blared And then my eyes opened And then the words were just out of reach I grasped in vain But they slipped away forever

[remoteo]

2am

"Do you believe in god?" “…” “I don’t know, do you?” “I don’t know. I think so.” “…I think I believe that I can’t know.” “?” “Like, I don’t think it’s possible for us, humans, people, to like, know whether or not there is a god. If there is a god, it’s probably wildly different than anything we’ve imagined.” “How so?” “I’m just saying… what are the chances that any one religion has guessed the exact thoughts and desires and commands of this almighty being that can do anything and has always existed and created everything, assuming this god does exist?” “…” “But, let’s imagine god does exist. Let’s imagine this almighty powerful being exists that can do anything. Let’s just accept it for a moment as fact. This being that can do anything, it’s real, it exists. There are so many fascinating things one could do with this power.” “Like?” “Like, now: what if god created the world just now. What if god created you and me with all of our memories, just now. In the middle of me telling you this, now. God could have created the entire world, in its exact state, exactly as it is, right now. Dinosaur bones in the ground, Einstein’s theory of relativity, Newton + apple + head: perhaps they never really happened? Perhaps we were created, just now, with memories of those things having happened? The evidence in place? The memories of me telling you ‘now’ a few seconds ago could be false, created with you and the rest of the universe, just now. Now. No, now. Anything is possible. The past could be an illusion. God could have created the universe now or 5 seconds ago or 13 billion years ago. If we accept the idea of god, then nothing can be certain.” “Ok?” “I don’t know. That’s it, I guess. I don’t know.”

[remoteo]

Windows

Across the way: two people A couple On their couch at comfortable distance With individual computers On individual laps Typing individually Looks so lonely Fuck computers Not really But why can't they talk? Or look at each other Hour after hour Feet apart but minds disconnected Connected world but so separated Two people A couple A single and a single Who only mingle When one gets in the other's way That's no way to live.

[remoteo]

Au Revoir

Announcing: Death In resplendent glory Trickles of light On a bright spring morning Is this it? Tear stained bedsheets Was that it? Life felt so brief Smile, please, sons and daughters I’m ready More ghost than real I can’t describe how it feels Last breath, so sweet Last sight… Last thought: Is this it? … It is, isn’t it? … This is it. This is all there is. 

[remoteo]

Pavement Story

Sidewalks speak through foot fallen echoes Gum stains, beer cans, dirt that won’t let go Alley walk shortcut dinner destination Passing through with no hesitation Dumpster dreamers' eyes of glass  Elevate heart rate must move fast Ice cream parlor old school barber Mind cast farther than sight can see Feet falling forward automatically Left, right. hands tight. eyes down. face frown No one else around in this part of town Bright sign shines I’m almost there Anxiety hands pulling my hair Stomach cries in rapturous delight Enter now, warm restaurant light

[remoteo]

CC: All

In one or five or twenty years You will no longer work here Three years since first day Many desks have changed Many bodies replaced Yet company remains the same How is this possible? Shifts so gradual They were imperceptible Memories of ex-coworkers fade As will those of me after I’ve gone Those who remember will too move on And on and on It is a mistake to assign self-worth To the things you do for money: Temporary bullshit of today And a forgotten memory tomorrow. Carry forth that which you love Leave the rest behind

[remoteo]

Facebook

Ding! sings my phone Irresistible siren call Hand gravitates forward Inches toward and toward My front right pocket Vibrations flirting With outer right thigh An intimate lie A ghost tap shoulder touch Signal that a thought  Has been sent my way Rouse device from slumber In anticipatory wonder Of what good news it brings today Bright eyes gleaming Retina screen beaming Projections of what my way? Devouring light Invades my soul A scouring blight of stark disappointment and cold For only one person has liked my poem.

[remoteo]

Powell Station

In Powell Station train depot Your phone is a mirror used to adjust hair Useful to avoid stare of strangers roaming near Here’s an intrusive thought: What if you push him there, so his body meets train? Evil thought, leave your brain Crowded car packed between a fat dude, Mr. Impressive beard, & another: Mr. Righteous B.O. Face to face. Beard to Beard. Sum up places to look. Rotate gaze from ad over his shoulder to reflection in window Near the place you want to go: Unreachable door there You are at peace with this place Tiny leaf drifting on a stream Being carried out the train On a current of in pain overworked after work people From Powell Station train depot

[remoteo]

Grains

Imagine your life is an hour glass. Every second a grain of you falls from top to bottom. Some day, the grains will run out. When that happens, you die. The grains fall ceaselessly and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. The control you do have is deciding how the grains fall and where they land. If you do nothing, the grains fall into nothingness and you can never get them back. However, if you try, you can divert the falling grains and turn them into piles. The piles can be anything. The piles can be grains spent practicing a musical instrument, reading a book, learning a new language, writing this story, or anything else. You have a finite number of grains and therefore a finite number of piles. You must chose which piles you will make and it will be at the expense of others. Make beautiful piles. Choose to live a life well spent.

[remoteo]

...

Is this it? This is it, isn’t it? ... It is. This is it. This is all there is.

[remoteo]

Silly Con Valley

We are genius magicians Who supply the magic buttons That fulfill your every need. We feed on your greed And we need to succeed. Your want is our fount. Your wont can be taught And your mind can be bought.

We ARE the genius magicians Who influence your decisions. We make our incisions In the fissures of your brain. We'll remove your pain And tell you you are sane.

We are the masters without Masters Who can't be bothered to shower Our undivided attention upon Any real, deserving problem.

We keep you shallow And allow you to follow Any hollow or vapid fellow.

We are the wizards of pause, Rewind, Fast-forward, Skip, Ad nauseum. Our videos are the funniest; Our buttons the shiniest. We'll keep you connected; Your messages intercepted; Your time well spent.

We are genius magicians  Who offer nothing More than a simple, everyday distraction.

[remoteo]

Secrets

I reveal my secret to her: I am happiest the moment before sleep, The point furthest from awake. Seven am I am a bundle of pain. I want nothing more Than an eternity between sheets To spend weeks and weeks and weeks Snuggled against her cheek. I crawl from bed to floor. I stumble through door. I bus from here to there. I work hour upon hour. I pile smile upon smile. I work harder and longer and slower. I don't care. I crave for just one more Lovely night with her.

[remoteo]

The Appmaker

I write love notes in Objective-C to myself and unknown future lovers. My life and time are spent perfecting a tiny package, an app. Unexpected crashes lead to sleepless nights. Lengthy arguments over navigation inspire brief thoughts of career change. Months pass and through the chaos emerges a tiny, imperfect gem. It doesn't do all that we want, but it does enough. I pin my hopes on:      Its simple beauty,      Its logical layout,      And its creator's obsessive attention to detail With a final adieu my fingers tenderly stroke keys that send it packing Towards final judgement by our feudal lords, the fickle gatekeepers known as Apple. A single thumb holds the fate of my efforts:      Pointed down, my baby is off to the guillotine; never to see the light of day.      Pointed up, she will run free through a world designed just for her. Dear Apple, Your Highness, Your Lordship, please don't kill my baby. I will abandon lifelong agnosticism and raise golden idols in your image. I will prove my devotion through ritualistic purchases of your products. I will preach your greatness and convert the masses. I will do whatever it takes, just please don't kill my baby.

[remoteo]

Morning Commute

I am on the bus. I am sitting next to a man who smells like piss. I am reading Man's Search for Meaning And I am comparing my life to that of a Jew during World War II.

I am thinking it's all relative and I am off the bus. I am waiting at a red light as others cross; I am thinking what's the rush?

I am shooting smiles with reckless abandon At passing coworkers On my beeline to safe desk.

I am asking myself What does it all mean? I am grasping at faint memories of this morning's read. I am medicating myself with caffeine. I am staring at my computer screen.

[remoteo]

It was fun

I used to play a game Called 'Find my keys' On Saturday mornings. Yawns and more Escaped my mouth As I lay in torture On my couch. I'd find my way From hour to hour Until outside I'd Check My car was still there. I used to play this game On Saturday mornings Monday mornings Tuesday and Wednesday. I played this game Until it wasn't Fun anymore. 

[remoteo]

Role Models

When I was alone Music gave me company; Music gave love to me.

Bukowski Taught me how to drink Taught me how to think.

Merritt broke his heart So I didn't have to; Despite my want to.

Murdoch fell in love And was loved by Everyone.

Heinlein made the stars mine. He conquered time With divine truth.

Woody's fantasies Were unbelievable Which made them lovable.