Optimistic Concurrency Control
I have a job that most I think would consider
“people-facing”, but when you look closely at it
I still spend an enormous amount of my day
having eye sex with a computer, whether mine
or the State’s or somebody else’s entirely, but
no matter whose it is it is still a gross vacuum
into which to dump my endless propensity for
experience, all the cognitive resources I could
expend on coming up with puns so physically
painful to be on the hearing end of you laugh
your breathlessest laugh and look at me, disappointed
but charmed, the only effect I have
a right to hope to have on you before the
optimistic locking of my heart / does me in.
False Bay
The mixed listening we perform is an
approximate warmth, one unburdened by
concerns of trajectory or later dates; we
need never hazard our full attention on
any one thing, which would require a
frightful quotient of care, plus an idea
that that one thing is worth listening to,
unattenuated, for hours and hours on
end, like all the work it takes to shine
mixed metals to a point where they look
good together in some grander scheme
or unifying concept—in this metaphor
the metals act like duelling currents
in a long (and very wide) river, in which
they can not only collide and superpose
but also disengage and separate, all in
the course of the river’s running—you
know, that blue noise you hear in the background,
its gurgling undergirding everything.
***
No thought I
have ever been
attracted to
has escaped
the following
autoreferential
form: there is
a deniable river
flowing at the
center of things
mostly undetected
& when it floods it
makes new forms
of truth for us
to wonder at or
to pretend we
cannot see from
our campsites on
its muddy banks
***
We’ve mistaken the bay
for a harbor and we’ve
mistaken the harbor for
an idea of safety and we
have mistaken safety
for exclusion
exclusion
exclusion and death
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