Insects, beasts with
If they have math
In their head,
Magnitudes and whatnot,
Their bodies made to
Encourage cut corners; round
Spider webs, not square
Birds, born with the
Ability to fly,
Know more than
North and South;
Tickets and bungee
We don’t concern
Ourselves with lift,
But ten, ten is
You can count
Rake your hands
In the dirt,
Them against your thigh
When you think
With all the answers.
Small, pale napkin with beer
stained edges soaking up the spill
from a three dollar can of Pabst
Blue Ribbon on a brown-black wood
grain bar top in lower Allston:
SOLVE THIS EQUATION AND I’LL SLEEP WITH YOU
But the hand behind that pen is out of sight,
left and gone home all alone for the night.
Posted in memoir, nonfiction, poetry, prose
Tagged 90s pop, alcohol, allston, beer, calculus, commonwealth avenue, cosine, dividend, geome, geometry, great scott, math, monday, okay so it wasn't actually in lower allston it was right on Comm Ave but Lower Allston still better so ya know what I don't care, pabst blue ribbon, pbr, pi, sex, sine, square root, the pill, trigonometry, women
He and She are two lines, converging
to a point like sharks in steady motion:
always moving forward, never going back,
and never standing still until its end.
He and She are straight lines with nothing
but a steamy ninety-eight-point-six degrees
between them, keeping them apart,
separated by an ark until they reach the Point.
She is a solid line, at least 5B lead,
running parallel along the grid
without wavering, without a bend,
and inked to give her shadows,
character, emphasis and depth, while
the other lines perpendicule around her.
He is a dotted line, bisectual,
cutting squares in half, pointing straight
a-head like an arrow, dangerous and
pea-cocked by its fletchings.
A compound beau with pulleys
and gears that often miss the mark.
He and She are headed for a Vanishing Point,
To a collision, or towards a horizon line
where every building skews in a new direction
down slanted streets, slouching towards,
To end, or to continue on and on, anon.
He and She are headed towards a head,
forged by perspective. A trick of the eyes
and the I’s and lines, the lives and the lies,
manipulating space- and wasting -time
creating new dimensions to live in-
side by side, not content with length-by-height.
He and She are two lines, converging to a Point:
An ending, a forever, or flip-sides of a coin?
Posted in nonfiction, opinion, poetry
Tagged 2D, 3D, apex, converge, converging, depth, dimensions, dotted lines, geometry, grid, grids, height, horizon, horizon line, length, lines, love, math, monday, parallel, perpendicular, perspective, point, points, romance, signs, space, space-time, time, vanishing point, verizon, width