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That was, in its way,
accidental:
the Tao of the house
seeing fit
that the rubber bat
stays aloft.

2.10.10

Apexin', dude

I remember it like it's tomorrow. Chris puts down his pen, looks up from the notebook full of BBS numbers and game maps he keeps next to his computer, and blinks. He takes a long swig of Coke, glances at the pack of cigarettes his dad left behind when he called it quits for the night, and almost reaches for one but doesn't, knowing he's already got an addictive personality (and besides, his dad will notice any missing smokes; he counts them carefully since he's trying to quit). Takes another swig of Coke.

"It's messed up," he says, "but this is what people are going to put on a pedestal. It doesn't matter how fast their machines get, what their baud rates are, or even if they've got computers that fit in their pockets. They'll get nostalgic about playing computer games in basements with wood paneling. Shitty graphics will be awesome. Nobodies will be heroes."

Before he sits back in his chair he plucks a Marlboro from the pack on the desk and lights it. "This is it," he grins behind the cigarette. "Apexin', dude."

"this is not the heart sutra speaking"

There will be no return to form.
There was never any form
to begin with. This is not the Heart
Sutra speaking; this emptiness is the
one we know, the one we fear, the
shape and texture we think we
associate with the darkest of nights.
Emptiness cultivated by trying
to hold it at bay. We'll return,
there's no doubt of that; it's just
a question of what we bring
back, or what we leave behind.
When we've returned, thinking
the sun has banished whatever
we just did, it won't be to form.