Q - cubed, or something mathematical.

Q is the space between entering a room, and the realization that it is not invited-
the still confused, expectant little bird-
a brimming second glass of wine
Q is crescendo prior to piano-
a warmth remembered deeper and more visceral than others-
a tent in any forest
Q might pop in at the most uninvited and quiet of moments
amid symphony chorus, a choir clap
whilst everyone is pretending their hardest to be a writer
Q is a variable in a statistical analysis
solved for by children's laughter
separated by an integer greater than 1/3 of a lifetime
Q can only be what it is, and severely never impostor-
through its servitude to impunity, it is excluded from a waining gibbous-
only ever full moon
Q is drawn out by friends when it can
savored by the light of candles and cop cars
held open by irony and recollection, like a door for elderly admittance
Q is romantically, emphatically, unequivocally, the amount of time i/we should smile vs. how often i/we do.
it's me/us at the top of something I/we have not seen since I/we was/were a child/children, too short to reach up there, and ostensibly too young to care

The Geography of Bliss

"Cafes are theaters where the customer is both audience and performer."
~Eric Weiner

all these things are living & not bound by punctuation

her folks named her caribou after the country they longed to wrap themselves in

 pining for any place that requires each other for warmth

born bluer than the earth from a pub's window view on Jupiter, she fought hard for this one 

 said, "ride slowly there are children playin'

right there past the dog that's weary"

 waiting beside a bowl to dine or die

i can not tell if her father passed, or if her lover left and made her cry

 could it have been a past acquaintance kept lit by her young heart's light

all i know for sure is someone should hug her real hard

breathing threw it, the way ancestors had

 the way all animals do

chemical free and bound by possibility 

 leather in the mouth tastes like bark in the hand

if her eyes don't burst, her throat just may

 hands available, this one will fight back hard

in a space that fills the definition of watching and being watched at once

 we all sit and speculate

even caribou knows she doesn't know for sure

 her adjacent friend's empty mouth, brain, tea cup

liquids her past people drank with a variety of dinosaur 

 all i know for sure is caribou is stronger than any one in the joint 

& it's not for a career that holds her from feeling 

 she has been fortunate/unfortunate enough 

to live by the blood or brass ingested

 if that adds to comfort, well it's not in a scuffle with every other day

caribou; a picture of what each of us remembers 

 and the leather we will taste again some day soon 

arrived: the forlorn blossoms of an eggshell

well, we've done it sir.
you and me, and certainly I, have managed to become something no one else would like to be.
be it literal or otherwise, this place is all our own.
we fought so hard for the things we began to believe in our youth, and rejected any alternative.
struggles to free those we have never met from the chains our flighty privilege could see. accept nothing but absolute equality on all fronts. abhorrent equality. confront capitalism in every minutia impossible. bark at the moon while we pray to her in our mind. & potentially estrange one another. odious ideologies that we know can smell like the only answer.
and i am now drunk enough to start rocking to and fro. where is that conviction going?
and this is now the mint green walls of your past musings. dinner plates.
nor is it the drab grey walls. now that line our state's capital.
histories written on narratives we read in classes we never would attend.
i am what you are afraid of. a punk with a motive.
fought so hard we can't even admit we are only talking to ourselves. or am i? you, likely, have moved on from this long ago.
Oh, you've got green eyes
Oh, you've got blue eyes
Oh, you've got grey eyes

gibran kahlil gibran's: dogeared & stapeled

once annually she fights in the face of peace and tranquility to stand up straight and pretend
a beautiful theatric, likened to frying food sounds we all know as if they were our own skin
this battle with the sky, the walls, every old waxy record, and any still living plant
and knowing that others didn't bother, well that certainly will not make her stronger
she is not Catholic, nor any other form of deep ground guilt nor shame
like a Tuesday off from work, she does not see where there would be time

the great contributors to our revolution are those who created these "money on trees theories"
see the devil bleeding in a ditch, every Christian rushing frantically to save the soul of their fallen angel
without someone lying on top she would never be certain that there is a chance she. will. never. get. up.
muscle enough to break her own bones, fortitude is never what she needs

& it's so simple to peer back through the tunnel, before the ceiling dust fell from off her shoulders
that dust will never come clean of her clothes, and to cast them off, so stains pores and pillars
for others, that was the birth canal, otherwise known as their mother: leading from the uterus through the cervix, vagina, and vulva.
no one can see her dust, it is hers to breath

from the ditch she has a lovely view of all the answers to all of the questions that held her in dichotomy 
the sky, the walls, very old waxy records, botany and the like. 
what that means to her is the great western seagull defecating on a bronze bust of everything she ever believed in
she is the gray cloudy walls that wreak of unplayed vinyl and eucalyptus
the dust from from the ceiling is keep care of her
sunlight is the christian in her bleeding ribs   

chrome was once a plastic-some-place

when we awaken to exclaim "today..." what we more-so mean is what's left over.
see, a few years back there was a car down the block that folks slept overnight in regularly.
that car was painted with the wheels and tyres intact.
now, who could say what's become of it.
conceived a few children & possibly a nutrea nest & the usual needle holster & then ten paperbacks from the nearest free-box fantasy.
it made these things.
form the warmest heart of Mexico, & a never sleepy Malaysian capital from whence it came.
those windows held reflections of a visage. a fuselage for sale. again.
the thorax of this thing weeps as well as its midnight song that evening. in the wind. under their bodies.
the sleepy "heart and soul" an artifact of culture that gives it as much as any semaphore under capital statue shadows.
& it is not the ephemeral nature of the thing that makes it ring. that is not the case for any thing these-days.
it's the shine that both knobs of an aged radio could give you, when "something to look at" meant as much to you as hose needles & that baby & rodent resting & discarded novels & Mexico & every square centimeter of Kuala Lumpur.  
& perhaps more.