analogue notes

The Lookout

Jackson — Fri, 09 May 2008 07:30:03 GMT

grey skies and black sand below two eyes open, a yawn and then closed a twelve hour stand against the waves the rising sun sets the pupils ablaze look, horizon, forever flat-lined the fog of memory is a mentor, blind quiet, the guns that will never fire the silent battle amongst concrete and wire he waits, watches for a ship to arrive something to break the repetitive tides forever he searches for signs of life there is no victory in a war that won't die back to the barracks to sleep off the strain eyes without purpose, a death with no name

Pb

Jackson — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 06:06:27 GMT

“Give me 26 lead soldiers and I will conquer the world." - Benjamin Franklin having sliced through mythology and conquered the vaults of seducers and saints the pages crease under the overwhelming weight: the recognition of the earth that still stains the borders of this page we are still slaves to the enduring artifacts that are sifted by those whose lives are in the past these words woven into the chains of authenticity this dialect that defines the outlines of form and function the freedom that arises from these repetitive designs was once burned by curious desire upon the minds that bore us when the savior becomes the sinner the brand is burned upon the mind we must read our way out into the uncharted realms demystified

The Historian

Jackson — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 07:22:56 GMT

I am a student of history schooled in all dead languages I specialize in obsoletions interpreting the intentions of lost races I try to put together a world from pieces of different puzzles I construct life from the scraps of memory stored carefully in folders on my desk to recreate the past has taken years this daunting task pulls me back along time's worn indentations clues to a crime never committed a fabled land I imagine never existed

X-Ray

Jackson — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 08:08:49 GMT

the memory of flesh is carved in the liquid of time transparent this impermanent sculpture divined from the mystic cards of the ritual mind speak to me! of glorious battles the collisions of pride the novels of sinew and muscle are written, not in rhyme, but in the cryptic slurs that penetrate sublime we are seekers of a lost world one that lives and dies within the revolutions of language these definitions of life punctuated over and again as our bodies collide and, once comprehended, divide

Rituals of an Agnostic Machine

Jackson — Mon, 18 Jun 2007 08:29:05 GMT

when there's nothing you can do but work the lines dotting the sweat-drenched city where the steam collects in droplets along the alleys of your mind and the drugs you take daily just to keep you alive hear the siren crying this mortal sign another marker of justice telling you it's all behind just another bolt in the foundation supporting the commercial lies that everything will be alright this time gazing through shop windows at who you might become back to the boxed apartment above a street named sublime a tool lying in its box has no meaning until it's held another job to complete repeats itself indefinitely so put another pill inside to stave off chaos one more time slowly picking the synapse apart those undulating wires that only seem to remind you you have nothing to fight for except the crimes they invent just to keep you in line

hardening artery

Jackson — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 10:52:45 GMT

locked in a flesh knot the skin is a horizon binding many forces my face is a mirror my mind is unpeeled fruit untasted becomes spoiled there are no ropes long enough to wrap around this fragile lust its glacial thrust cracking in the sunlight the idea is intriguing but my body can't turn under this weight all this love bleeds into deviations when i can see in your reflection my imagination unbound

cruiser

Jackson — Mon, 14 Aug 2006 11:03:17 GMT

stray cats in darkness eyes lined with a fence city blocks saturated with intent money passes hand beyond where the street lamps land, thick discussions soon pass as smoke exhaled through lips of gravel push comes to shove throw back and dash dropped bottles of adrenalin smashing the concrete bare eager youths stride through soothsayers and grime greased streets silent unwinding with a smile backwards rewind to an unchanged room where desperation waits to take another ride

Diva

Jackson — Tue, 04 Jul 2006 10:24:32 GMT

a thousand colors speak to her name she paints her face daily with shame and cocaine a flower on her breast steel through her libret she's the queen of deception on coronation day her voice shines as armor she casts only shade she wants for only glamour far from the trailer park decay she can't seem to find, though in her closet's disarray a dress that will fit her one for which she was made she's a fixed point of motion the most beautiful display the world is hers to own if only she could escape

on the edge of a sidewalk

Jackson — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 09:08:17 GMT

on the edge of the sidewalk where the flat world stops and dives into grates of chaos flashes of rubber and synthetic shells the sharp reflection of mundane sunlight trickling through the afternoon haze cornershop and liquor sales salient creatures stock up on ways to waste the day slow cops reflect behind rimmed mirrors the fast slice and dice market carving up sidewalk sales scripted to a buyer’s desire fate calls a no-show as the frantic suit seeks salvation the forgotten son drops off his dreams in a unmarked mailbox the sidewalk swept clean with dollar bills