Literary Orphans

Three Poems by Ian Forsyth

rescue_by_Alphan-yilmazmaden

The Principle Book of Social Uncertainty Possibilities

They are waves of judgment

. . crashing against our faces

. . . . . . now everyday—

 

. . . . . . and when you used to be able to hide from it

. . hide from the silent fuck you’s of the street

now it invades your bedroom

through a glowing portal.

 

#

 

The waves are overlapping:

a social superposition

We’re the flashy new electrodrones (electrons)

existing partly [and separately]

in all our particular theoretically possible states:

 

the state of face

the state of the instant

the state of the twit

simultaneously

much as the clouds of “i”

gather “positive” superconnections.

 

: )

 

The Heisen[Zucker]berg [social] uncertainty principle states:

that at any given time, an electr[odrone’s]on’s speed

and location cannot be determined:

it will already have [refreshed]—

 

Be quick about it—Let us catch up—

. . . . . . FOMO!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . ( ~ (—: FOMOing at the mouth—that squeeing infospout :—( ~ (

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . We must change something—any thing—any detail—

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .We must post something different—

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “I AM EATING CHEESE

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IN BED, AND I CAN TELL YOU THIS

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I LOVE DAH INTERNET!!!!!!!!”

 

Otherwise we cannot live up to quantum [social] expectations—

which begs the question: do subatomic particles socialize?

 

: (

 

As of 2012, Facebook generates 180 petabytes of data a year.

One pettybyte is enough to store the DNA of the entire population of the USA,

while cloning them twice.

 

According to a futurist, Kurzweil,

[who electroprophesizes that the singularity approaches:

wherein we becometh over-loaded with spiritually-wise machines]

the capacity of a human being’s functional memory [if you’re willing to hold that much]

is estimated at 1.25 terabytes

Meaning that one pettybyte

holds the memories of 800 human beings

 

It’s estimated a human body holds 100 trillion cells

If one bit equals one cell [1 or 0, plant or animal]

then the pettybyte holds the cells for 90 people

 

and at the total absorption rate of 45 bodies

and 400 minds a day,

Facebook brings to us the higher exaltations of the exa, zetta, yottabyte

 

The Yoda-byte: . . . . . . “PATIENCE YOU MUST HAVE

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . my young padawan.”

 

Before you become a posthuman god

. . you must suffer before judgment

 

0:)

 

1 out of 3 users

. . responded with resentment triggers

While 48% of quitters

. . did such on grounds of privacy invasion

. . and only 6% said they were addicted.

 

The first step to recovery

[of lost data [or of time]]

is to admit that we are powerless

and that our lives have become unmanageable

[without instant messaging [or the space to reminisce]]

 

:-/

 

Given the nature of estrangement—

psychology has given us 4 ways

to deal with the impact of being unfriended:

 

  1. Do not ruminate [look this up if you don’t know the definition—or better off: don’t. When in doubt: don’t]
  2. Expand real-life social networks [reality isn’t real unless you network it]
  3. Examine your negative FB behavior including rude comments and posting “too much information” or TMI [bc U r a bad lil’ doggie! Srsly? TMI is gross and icky, so is intelligenz—no one likes a showboat…but a self-referential narcissist is OK, I like that!]
  4. Don’t stalk the person who unfriended you, let them cool off [bc they r obviously cooler than u, heat up a lil’ bit—post a sexxxy selfie, twerk it up, liv’ a lil’!! Derp!]

 

; )

 

. . . . . . At age 102, Ivy Bean, of Bradford, England joined FB in 2008, making her one of the oldest people ever on FB. At the time of her death in July 2010, she had 4,962 friends and more than 56,000 followers on Twitter whom could each follow her approaching death through ongoing status updates.

. . . . . . Asked why she did it and why people we’re so into her, she said:

. . . . . . “Everybody’s got to get their 15 megabytes of fame somehow!”

. . . . . . Followed by a

 

. . . . . . : )

 

. . . . . . little did she know by the age of 104,

. . . . . . her body and mind were composed of 12.868 terabytes

. . . . . . (that is if she had the memory for this)

 

. . . . . . and that we still don’t know the data limit (nor plan) of her spirit

 

. . . . . . nor do we have a live feed

. . . . . . on the weighing of her heart

. . . . . . in the land of the dead

. . . . . . wherein we would tag her corpse

. . . . . . and comment: “Fuck Yea! No FOMO here! This geezer rocks!

. . . . . . [She gets us! She gets what it is to be human!]”

 

. . . . . . We all hope the divine like

. . . . . . passes well over her accounts

. . . . . . set to memoriam

 

#1#0#both

 

The video game of the future

is messaging upon us:

 

like this

and repost on fifty close friends’ walls

 

at a million likes

 

who knows whats possible!

 

101110001010101010101010101010

101110001010101010101010101010

101110001010101010101010101010

101110001010101010101010101010

101110001010101010101010101010

 

 

RE: tl;dr

 Taksim Taxis and Teargas-Seamus Travers

Behind Opened Doors

My brother told me a story about cookies.

 

Some self-made, high middle class thirty-year-old

who lived in a ritzy almost condo apartment complex

made enough cookies for everyone in the building—

 

then he went door to door trying to hand them off

and met, shall we say,

a lack of acceptance.

 

One neighbor said, like did many others in similar terms:

. . . . . . “We don’t want to know you

. . . . . . just like we’d expect you

. . . . . . not to want to know us.

. . . . . . So you and your cookies can fuck off.”

 

*

 

We’re slipping away from each other.

It’s a scientific fact shrunk to quantum level.

68.3% of the universe is hypothesized to be dark energy.

 

We have no idea as of yet what dark energy is made from

but we know what it’s doing—

. . . . . . It’s . .yanking . . everything . . . apart

. . . . . . Eventually . it leads . . to . . . a . . . “Big . . Freeze”

. . . . . . Where . . . ever . y . per son . , . which . is . . to say . part . icle . . . . . . ,

. . is. . . . . . . . . . . . s o . . . . . . . . . .fa . r. . . . . . . . . . . . flun. . . . . g . . . from . . . eachother

. . . . . . . . every. . . . . . . . . . . . thi . . . . n. . . . . . g. . . . . sto . . ps. . . . . m . o . v . i . n . . g

 

*

 

A fellow collegiate peer held a door open

for me today. It’s not uncommon,

actually it seems the prescribed act to do.

 

It happens all the time, simultaneously around the world,

3,678 doors were just opened, and 8,931 people went through them,

I do it too, a door held for ten seconds for the people behind you,

a foot between the elevator door to cramp in a last body,

a friendly reminder to the bus driver, someone is sprinting behind the bus—

 

While it might not be appropriate to talk to this person,

(I’ve got my ipod on; I’m on my smart phone with my mother; I’m texting)

I can definitely hold the door open for them.

 

*

 

I heard from a Japanese exchange student, studying English in Vancouver,

as we spoke on a traveling bus in a rudimentary English of gesture and miming

bridging unknown words with reconstructed strings of simpler words

mitigating the broken abstractions with head nods and much grinning:

 

That in Japan, if you see someone you know in public

it is proper to dip your head down to your phone

and ignore their presence

 

*

 

As I’m walking through the sliding doors of my grocery store,

I realize the foundational power I have towards strangers

has been stolen from me.

 

And I start shopping at stores

where the doors are not automatic.

 

*

 

It is said that the number of likes

you receive on Facebook

for posting a narcissistic photo of yourself

is directly correlated in quantity

to the strength of social anxiety

you will feel when treading out

into the non-networked world.

 

*

 

I often wonder about the term “private property”

and if Marxists were insisting with a fervent glee

that on the abolishment of this practice:

that everyone can now walk through everyones’ doors—

 

sleep in our garages, in our beds, on our lawns,

talk to us in the morning over coffee

and we’d might as well go see who lives in every house

and apartment, in the next ten square blocks

 

for we’ve never met them,

and we’ve still got some coffee we can share,

Bring the thermos, won’t you Emma,

It was Karl, right, could you pull the cookies out of the oven?

 

How much larger a city would be!

If we could go through the portals

of everyone’s private lives

and enter their inner fears

with our own boldly shining

 

and irreverently ready to have a conversation

about the meanings of “private property” “in society”

or just as easily: “cosmic consciousness”

and “the fate of the universe”

 

*

Science has been attempting to disqualify

happenstance as an actual phenomena of the universe:

because they’re afraid what might happen if they don’t.

 

For a theory of everything would prove

that we’re made of smaller particles than we thought—

 

and they happen to be separating

 

*

 

It is often said, that the world is shrinking

for we can communicate

and acclimate

to every country in the world

via the web,

 

but then people just watch porn

and find a favorite downloadable television show.

 

Please remember to like someone’s photo on Facebook.

 

*

 

We all understand good deeds.

They’re meant to be quick and easy

and expected.

 

They may be getting smaller

and farther apart

 

but isn’t the whole universe?

 

 

 

And isn’t it our choice

to pull it back together

 

The door’s open stranger—

 

Rosetta Reflection-Seamus Travers

 

The Vast Distances

 

The distance to the moon: 238,900 miles

The distance across the city I live in: 3,830 blocks

The distance to social gratification: unknown abstract directions

The distance of dream: the composite measure of reality

The distance across the United States (Neah Bay, WA to Eastport, ME): 3,586 miles

The distance between every human being: unknown ineffability

The distance to the sun: 92,960,000 miles

The distance between two people: two heads, two hearts, & two souls

The distance to Proxima Centauri, the closest star to our own: 24,792,710,570,269.63 miles

The distance consciousness travels after death: unknown mystic hypotheses

The distance it takes light to travel in a year: 5,870,000,000,000 miles

The distance humanity will travel: unknown residuum

 

 

 

I feel a vast distance between me and others—

 

I’m mostly thinking of women here

that I’d like to know in more intimate ways.

 

I’m willing to bridge this distance

and see what we might see

at the high arch of this bridge—

where we may slip or slump and tumble down

back to our prospective sides

or linger at the peak:

 

it’s all about stepping towards the precipice.

 

 

 

I’m writing poems online by request

some are to people in loving couples

whom cannot express their love

so they hire me to for five bucks

(3.92 of which I get)

to e-compose what I feel is not cliché to them

but is to me—

for if I was in love—

I would never search the net in doubt of its lush multivalent effervescence!—

It would level novels and chip chapbooks from granite

It would burst twisted snapping readiness

from all the central cathedral ventricles, phantasmagoric rivers

of wit melded libido, caressing…

 

And I could continue—

but why waste the troubadour trapeze

of imagining what isn’t.

While I chase away all the women

I find magnetic on the street

as I sit on my stool

next to a chalkboard sign

that reads: POEMS MADE HERE

as I ask them each:

“Would you like me to write you a poem?”

 

 

 

I’ve been consistently astounded by the ease of my words

to amaze these strangers (most of them not possible dates)

once they’ve agreed to give me thirty minutes

to compose a poem on a subject of their choice—

 

When they return, I read it with as much vigor

as I can muster with many gazes in their eyes—

looking up from the handwritten page

as I shock them with the terrifying beauty of language.

 

I don’t believe they are just being polite

Their reactions are tethered to some essential loss

of the power of language—

that is the poet’s duty to restore,

safeguard, desire, and adore,

never letting it stay stagnant

relinquished to a dusty moratorium

of the university library:

word defeated by image.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These vast distances exist in the fernweh

of public: wanderlust in localities

existing between doubt

and happenstance—

how to reach the precipice

in such a way that it is clear

to the potential lovers whom desire

each other in the brevity of interaction

compelling occurrence—that petty customs

would not raise the barricades

cinch down the ballasts

and break away

from belonging:

its own destination

far of civics’

bitter divisions

 

and if we’re both desperate:

isolated in desolation—

for sex—

that limited connective tissue

of momentous momentum

 

and don’t believe there’s any intellect

to be exchanged

than let us make love

with no expectation—

 

we’re all too far

from each other regardless

 

But what hollow doings:

to clean your flute

fill your bowl

dispel forwards other fantasies

and the larger grandeur

 

Why doesn’t this grandeur exist

self-evident, easy to grasp—

at least when you feel it,

 

ah, but it slips away

as I misconstrue you—

and the steel we are born to

and must I heat my soul

towards more immanent fires

before strangers will visualize me,

molten, beyond mere image—

these tinsel disaffections

we are all beholden to

 

 

 

 

Hence why I’m a poet

set up on the street

as the tides of the city unknown spill

before me and I seize on the courage to engage—

at least one woman so far has called me bold

and it is this ribald boldness of atrium and word

that I wish to imbue

into this vast distance

between us all—

we are not mere insects

of fickle conditioning

hive-minded, but not telepathic

each stuck to our separate clock gear’s tooth

barely more than glancing

as we all grind pass

a few sparks falling

by the wayside,

the barest minimum

acknowledgement

of presence—

 

 

Sure we may attempt a “hi” once in awhile

if the neurotic stars align between our nervous systems,

the pavement, and social expectations—

and we can strike up a conversation

like a match, carefully about the weather

as it burns out, waiting at the bus stop

 

and certain people by pigheadedness or grace

or the combination of both forces

hasten us over—the precipice

stalling the drop for a few seconds—

as we gaze over the dark flowering abyss

slow to recognize the wildflower fields

of minutes’ prisms, hours’ hue,

hopefully days’ crescent rippling into months’ compass

venturesome spectrum years—

where we wouldn’t allow age

to slow our contingency:

 

In the event of disaster:

an absurd foot in the mouth

a rejection slip of the tongue

a balderdash gesture signaled

to someone we thought we knew

in some other                           aspect

they were denying

and buried in their face:

hence why we hide our feelings

in our gaze, and look away,

from the stranger approaching

inside all of us:

 

We who will shorten the vastness

with the scaffold of proximity—

Proxima Centauri urges us so—

—as much as dream, the moon,

the sun, human measure—

For there is an entire audience

of strangers we’ve met

or are yet

 

to meet.

They multiply by the day

into distances that exist

by every direction, thus every distance

every presence—

 

Hello,

Would you like to hear a poem?

O Typekey Divider

Ian Forsyth is a poet, novelist, film director, and community organizer out of Portland, Oregon. After working nonstop since Earth Day 2014 against the world’s largest chemical corporations for November’s election, he plans to drop out as a bohemian for eight months in Europe, gathering the necessary rest, relaxation, and inspiration for his fourth novel. .

poetonthestreet

O Typekey Divider

–Art by Marta Bevacqua

–Art by Alphan Yýlmazmaden

–Art by Seamus Travers