Molds
By John C. Osborn
Originally posted on Seven-Sided Die
We are all cast into molds,
in birth,
and we fight from that day forward
to recreate ourselves,
and to defy the system’s gods.
Introductions
By John C. Osborn
Originally published at Seven-Sided Die
Introductions,
like freshly branded impressions onto soft spiritual flesh;
and will you be my Facebook friend?
A hand shake,
an honest greeting,
an exchange of names nested on
an assumption that somewhere down
the winding and unknown road that is the
future, our two paths could well collide again.
What we take and leave behind in those
first moments where egos meet —
face-to-face —
strangers desperately reading the other seeking,
more than anything else,
common ground from which to relate
and discord from which to repel.
How concise must be the elevator pitch,
to compress decades of life
into a several-minute speech,
where every word and stumble thereof,
every gesture and unconscious twitch,
is likely recorded and scrutinized at neuron-firing speeds.
Tailored lines and friendly good-byes
does compel curiosity
over whether our interaction was
a fleeting memory quickly forgotten,
or stone from which a foundation is
constructed and a monument built.
#Dissent
By John C. Osborn
Ebb and flow;
our discontent boils over like
water bubbling over the edges
of a pot too small to contain,
too unprepared for change.
It has been this way
since the dawn of civilization,
as technology amplified pressure
and the water boils over:
printing press copies abound,
then radio waves redefines sound,
and television bridges common ground.
And it is with us,
the generation of I,
that we find a community spun
within the fiber optic lines,
where blood is bled on the
hash tags of tomorrow,
and our Facebook posts
garner numerous “likes”
to be shared through the
digital and mobile universes.
Night Bikin’
I swim through the ebony night,
find it as exhilarating and calm as
the sweet caress of a lover
after we both explode internally –
a ferocious orgasmic nova –
and find solace in one another’s
trembling arms.
I want to devour it, the night,
want to feed my insatiable hunger
for its starlit serenity,
its vulnerability –
my vulnerability, my freedom.
Drift though vacant city streets,
take ownership of what is often
off-limits, feel power within the
rhythmic pedal pumping;
I give up control,
let arms extend like wing flaps
while rocketing downhill
into an uncertain void –
a bullet, and chaos takes over.
Full moon wanderlust
makes loneliness feel like a shindig,
a raging party on my wheeled vessel,
listening to pulsating thumps of
bass blasts ear drums
cutting through teary eyes frozen
from sharp downhill glides.
I could ride into infinity,
a black hole of asphalt take me
away, like a seductive veneer,
and I’m smiling all the way
like a fearless explorer
who beckons eternity with
urban cartography
until dawns bitter light
sets expedition to camp.
What Four Drunk People On the BART Write About
This is a brief collaborative story written by me, Karen Wilkinson, Ashley Bailey, and Luiz Guevara while on the late night BART back to the East Bay after a sore throat-provoking night of Karaoke. We took turns contributing to the whole. Enjoy!
Photo Manipulation by John C. Osborn
It was a warm muggy night. The train dragged us forth. Everyone in the car remained silent in their own thoughts. Except for one — the loner in the back of the cab, the one who instead of closing her eyes watched those around. She noticed the glimmer.
It reminded her of a sequined outfit she had just constructed for her last show in Vegas. She knew it was just in her mind — it had been a long night. She was tired of running and hoped he wouldn’t find out what she had done.
She had to stop running. She knew this, yet she couldn’t. Her feet were tired, and her mind wandered. Where am I? And where am I going?
Does it matter, really? Where we go is forward into a terrain perhaps charted by explorers but essentially incomprehensible to an individual who has never experienced it. This level of philosophical scrutiny is beyond what is necessary for the moment. What is necessary now is the soft caress of a lover.
While she knew it, she went with her heart. She went toward the light — the glimmer. And grabbed it. The power was too much, and she aimed it. At no one. Everyone. Fear flooded into faces. She backtracked. Into her head. And aimed the glimmering device inward.
Drunk ass-fucking bitch.