A Tired Man

“I doubt he’s thinking about much. People tend to move when deep in thought, but un-thoughts are still. The body thickens the air around you in a desperate attempt to put you to sleep.”


I’m outside on the patio of The Coffee Bean across the street from UNLV. There is a slender older man in muted tan tailored pants I can see through the window. This man’s feet are dressed with patterned eggshell blue socks and placed inside a sharp pair of Oxfords. His green corded jumper is hiding a collared shirt underneath… though I can’t tell what color (maybe midnight blue?). The wire brimmed glasses he’s wearing are thick enough, and his slightly wild hair stands on end. Oh. His hair is graying in places. 

I observe him for a few minutes, and he pauses to rub his eyes, but this is a cue I didn’t need to tell he was tired, the repeated sighing motions in his body were signs enough. There are papers in his hands, but the poor things are only halfheartedly being studied. In an effort to concentrate (a task he appears to be failing miserably at) he consumes an espresso, a pastry, and a few sips of his water. (I have to agree here; this is no time for excessive water drinking.)

Maybe this man is a professor? I am sitting across from a university after all. The gold wedding band on his finger is slightly bigger than it should be. I want to sit next to him and ask why he’s so fatigued and on the path to being gaunt. I’m not one to talk though, I don’t sleep.

My man decides to give up and stares absentmindedly at the coffee counter instead, motionless, and I doubt he’s thinking about much. People tend to move when deep in thought, but un-thoughts are still. The body thickens the air around you in a desperate attempt to put you to sleep. I wonder if he’s too tired to manage his task, or if he’s just idling until a meeting of some sort. Annoyance. I am forced to look away as his gaze trails over to me, causing my pulse to speed up and an Anxiety to pull on my throat.

After composing myself internally, I turned my attention to other things, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw that when he got up to leave he paused in front of the window where I sat. It didn’t occur to me until later that he must have been watching me from the moment I looked down. I wonder what I looked like to my stranger. I wonder what he saw.


Sometimes I forget to think in words.
Instead I start to think with my body.


Think in food.
Think in clothes.
Think between the walls.
Think out for my friends.
Think with the lights on.
Think with beads of sweat.
Think through my eyes.
Think in thick pink noise.
Think in contagions.

Thinking in. Thinking out.
Thinking in. Thinking out.

What are words and
What do they mean?

The Cyborg’s Monologue

Did they not warn you that I was the cyborg death?
I know where the sea is not the sea.
I know where the air is thick with signals.
So many signals it takes such a long. Long. Time. To move.
Hm. To live in a garden full of still and silent angels.
Where I am the rabid dog, and you are the only human.
Rabid dogs don’t need skill on their side.
They don’t even need fear. They just are.
Pushed by biological desire. Foaming.
Un-mechanical as they come. Foaming.
No wires. No one groping for them.
No one hoping to learn more about them.
No desire to use them for anything. plan-less.
The only thing people have for the rabid dog,
Is the primal sense to get way. Terror.
And maybe a little pity. It is strange.
Why is it that humans are so repulsed by pity.
Pity is a manifestation of caring. Empathy.
Humans would do well to cherish pity closer than they do.
Did no one tell you that I am the cyborg, Death?
And you are the human with no skill. Pitiful.
Humans should revel in their pitifulness.
It’s a unifying weakness, in all that there is.
Now is the time to pray for the garden.
A garden full of still and silent angels.
A garden where I will not be, after digital death.
Free of the rabid dogs hounding you away.


My heart’s beating so fast,
but maybe I’m just being reactionary.
Red. Blinded by eye sight.
I’m tasting your mouth, lost, and a little dry.
What have you been smoking?
It’s not a pleasing taste, but it feels so nice.
Like silk, trailing down.
My skin is turning cold, ice by touch.
It freezes like I have no blood left.
Let me borrow some of yours.
You look a little lost. No one speaks to you,
but you’ve never had the urge to cry.
Where’d you get that rough touch,
like you’re going to work all the time.
Where’d you get that look. Cold.
Like you’re ready for the war to begin.
Looking at you makes my blood run cold.
Let me borrow some of yours.
I’ve never felt so exposed, so worn down.
But you always drink to me later.
You’re a furnace, trying to keep a burn alive.