My Cardboard Balcony

There's something delightfully bizarre about passcodes, the way they confuse someone made of skin and bones rather than circuits or wires or bot -ness, for lack of a better word. It's the result of an off-chance prediction that maybe we are simply the face of a monitor smirking at the possibility of selling Viagra or crowning ourselves Nigerian Princes on someone's Facebook account. It's reasonable enough, a passcode, but the words themselves could be so much like a convoluted stream of water mixed with salt. Not like the sea, though. That's too generic. So I decided it'd be best to string together these brain bubbling phrases like beads of different sizes and shapes on a gold thread. The end product may be a bit... strange. But experimentation, if done with a good heart, can create...well, a chaotic mess of language. But isn't that what poetry is, anyway? Because you call Geedei by his proper name. And you are unegic (not) when you

"So you're twenty-two now?" "Twenty-three." He passed me another bottle of Full Moon. We sat alone together on the blunter edge of a fence overlooking the lot. The grocery store sat empty on our left. The Jack in the Box was on our right. "You could've gone out with other people, you know," he said to me. "I know," I replied, taking a sip of beer. "I didn't want to."