brian kim stefans

 

SONNET

 

 

Can I deny—

a little bleed in the brain span—

deny my username—

hardly moving out into continents—

 

the span

where my body hides,

and the history of changes,

and the language I’ve used to get used to it—

 

we love, in love, so

love is love, thus

pregnant with acid logic,

the mucus and sperm sail over flimsy tempests,

 

in a poem, no less,

photographing its issuance. 

 

 

 

 

TRUST

 

 

Trust—an exotic coin—

suddenly you find you’re near a perilous ocean,

kind of melodramatic, with creatures

straight out of Marvel comics

leering like idiots,

 

and the story of a senile heiress

rises, soulful and distant, but hilarious—

her lackeys deep and full

in tumults, dun piles

that are visceral and excessive—

 

so, shake it off.

The conversations you believe you have had

blend in an airtight docket—

why can’t that be a comfort?

“God,” after all, “does not play dice with the

 

vodka tonic.”

You trust her—that’s ok. You

guess, still, hands on

the keys running twelve-tone to The Drift—

the dominant, when fallow.

 

 

 

 

THE NEW

 

 

New—like a baby howling “kill the fucker”

from its iron crib—new

like episodes of your daily blood coursing

transmitted to every computer

day and night—

new—like a toothbrush,

bristles standing straight—

what is it that makes all of these things the same?

They have something to do with “new.”

 

In one sitting, she could master the controls,

and with that, caromed

off into the simulated NYC skyline on her screen

(HUD off, she was flying with no HUD)

and she was excited.

—It was better than glass blowing!

which she had just failed out of in night school

(partly due to scheduling problems,

but it’s also known that she didn’t get along with the teacher).

 

So we get this straight, also—

nothing gets “old” in the virtual.

Every word—you turn it over like a cube

in a syntax mesh—like a polygon in Lara Croft’s buttocks—

never failing, and it never fails

to ignite. Thus, your negotiations

revive, cyclical—like T.S. Eliot meant with the term “juvescence”

—not so hotly as to feel religious, only

sacrilegious, as it sabotages our inevitable meat.