(photo credit: Kiki
Smith)
All we Did Was Count Algorithms
1. feeling elated
A man stood gazing, between the window gate
and
the gaping glittered tree petals dappled with
cherry
blossoms saluting the thrush (she beat her
song
into his heart).
Wistfully replicating nature in his breathe,
inhaling the verdant leaves and exhaling chattering breezes, the winsome charms
and notes of pleasure became trinkets listed on the magazine rack attached to
the sky.
The first paragraph read, “Things are nice to
stare at when you gaze out windows. Please describe the feeling of pleasant
fleeting joy on your tablet.” -because no one heard his mind.
2. writing about the environment
We watched him shut the blinds, like it was
bizarre to amuse himself with timing the aesthetic rhythmic movements and
without invitation. He then sat at his desk and punctured the surface of a
sketch.
The river of birds stacked into a diagram of
modifiers on logarithmic paper. Along with the terrazza tent’s blue and pink
and yellow balloons, all calculable and stuffed inside geometric formations. But,
what about the wispy ribbon clouds moving profusely at the end of this long and
powerful beaming?
The man seemed ample studious to write stuff,
but he refused to join.
3. when we aren’t paying attention
Attention
vintage acres:
Please
show up in your pantomime characters. Women braid your hair in fishtails this
year with flowers on the side. Please,
do not scarf all the wedding cake. Pay attention to the animals in the petting
zoo.
Side
note: do not mind the mystery man gazing from floor two of the hotel, he’s been
there all day. Not that we mind much, but how absurd?
4. coming down off our perches
When you are on the stage or pool deck, silently
list the algorithms that keep deep meaningful connections adrift,
“He is strange.”
“She is staring at my left breast.”
“I would like a baby like his, but I can’t
afford the rent.”
“My feet hurt.”
Alas,
these estimates are capricious indeed because really the bomb went off and that
kind of changed things.
5. there is no justice
The man
stood peeping out a slot in the shutters two inches high. The flashing red and
blue lights blazed and yellow men scattered in the intrepid moonlight.
Consumed, he sat down praying with tears streaking the ink canvas- there are no
graphs to chart injustice. He threw his pen across the room and into the
wastebasket. He dressed himself and went out to look for remnants of a lost
world.
A deep low mourning call came from the thrush
and everything went silent.
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