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Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

To Repetition
Never believed in unicorns nor the whispers of horses. I know a liar in any species. They all give
themselves away. And yes, if it breathes it can lie. Plants, flies, mushrooms, yeast even those fabrics,
that synthetic blend of chemistry that lets air in and dries sweat super fast.
Hope is a love song for the streetlights. And you know where time goes? It sinks into your wrinkles,
slumps the shoulders, builds on the waist, goes on the thighs, grows hairs and exiles any sense of
attractiveness. Quarantines some something from the handsome. But hope carries on even when
only the lights are listening.
Every diary is a thief. Each entry steals from the ability to reimagine an event in a better light. The
truth is mean and uses its cruelty to defeat its enemies. Thus, it is free.
Dreams are made of wires and gears. Circuits and machinery. Thinking is John Henry. Fantasy, the
steam drill.
Come hell.

Come high water.

Go, heaven.

Go, lowtide.

Be still limbo. Be still cesspool.

Remain purgatory. Remain standing
always among

Tied to sympathy, the angels already lost

both their battles
and their path
- the will to submit
to instincts.

Pity is a guardian. Regrets sentry the city demons.

The spectrum
is wide
but a gated community
If only a better system was more in vogue. In demand.
Fought to win
to settle debts
and the new world
with old world dreams
whose bravery has all but
been sweat out
without a drop mourned for.

For if the soil is unfit for fruit it is unfit for us.

Grace is a worthless harvest

redemption is a cash crop

of little profit.
Silence diminishes as sleep ends.
Thought comes with a voice of actions
enslaved to notions.

Dreams whisper if they speak. They are the phantoms of privacy.

A secret spirit meant to haunt
only one
who might find meaning
for waking

hope in sleep / fear in sleep / love in sleep

beauty broken to alarm
cells to rise, work, build.

Completion is the greatest lie the Devil ever told.

Over and done do not exist.

Tower of Babel collapsed along with the walls of Jericho.

The Grand Canyon is deeper every century

ice melts and water reminds us

we are no longer its children.

Magic is nothing without an audience.

Breathing is a give and take fiasco.
On the window pane
how many lives
have been left /
wiped away?

On the phone
how much was received?

Its such a pricy ceiling above holding onto air only seen in age
-grey, yellow, tainted
as unclean as life itself.

Down on itself the drain begins to leak

gives its love a goodnight piss
talks in runs, handle shaken
to silence
complaints of the overused, overworked, overlooked.

Chains, a part of a toilets troubles and utility.

How helpful restrictions can be in one light /
how bleak in some other sense.

Tied down. Whipped. No fetish for the reality of relatives. A crown of no. John Henrys single
minded heavy handed swing for the Jackie Robinson fences to come.
A shroud of opposition.
Christened. Baptized. Consummated. Initiated.
That downward strike to shake applause from nosebleed seats
- nigger heavenbalcony, mezzanine.

Hard to relax when respite is never long enough to allow us to forget.

Only to forge. To force a spike. a rail. a light headed this way and away
black on the backside. smaller. shrinking.
Pistons are improved upon. Gives way to electricity.
To circuits. To cycles.
To completion being equal
To repetition.