Long Gone by Kenyatta JP Garcia

Kenyatta JP Garcia is the author of Slow Living (West Vine Press), ROBOT and This Sentimental Education. They were raised on Flatbush Ave and still holds the world to the standards set forth by that microcosm of poverty, patois and street poetry. Currently, they spend their nights putting boxes on shelves for a buck and by day they edit Rigorous and prepare for the zombie apocalypse and the inevitable return of our alien overlords.

Begin To

been trying to keep it slim. thin enough to slide between the best of both worlds.

the one with


the other at a loss

          for that


the problem with spring is its insistence upon reaching out.


could it be related to rescue

it could be another chapter coming on.

it’s lonely

but there’s no room


when it’s needed


couldn’t be nominated for nothing even if trying were tried out, auditioned, given a shot. every target has a chance. every bullet taking one.


sometimes it might just be best to aks a question. to upset the question before it is even posed. to make sensibilities problematic in how to respond after the posing. sometimes to ask isn’t enough. an inquiry can be too open. too inviting and yet not wide enough for an answer.


it’ll be alright but the world gives the timid the creeps before the adventures start and somewhere a scene is lost. call it a ‘cut.’ it’ll be alright, the edits are on somebody’s side. the creeps and voyeurs have another point of view. the world endures it all and calls itself ‘lucky’ as long as it can keep on turning. the timid accept what is left in the way. call it ‘revision’ and hope an adventure is quick through the slightest of spaces given to the protagonist always under inspection.


reminders like to say ‘good-bye’

tell one to show

nostalgia some respect

to remember the hand the past had

as the future begins to grow feet

Draws Together

there’ll never be an endorsement

                    come ringing

                              into / of

          margins – areas outside +/- without designations

                    – alternate space

                    – enveloped in

ulterior dimensions –

                    is there any other way

          a lesson can be (re)turned?


erasure swollen sold became blight

gigolo with nothingness

to offer at price

satisfaction not guaranteed

          but may loneliness

          be relieved its duties

removed bit by bit

          – one in loss

          beyond recovery


where is there comfort in critical inevitabilities?

destiny doesn’t favor one hope above another

fate is the way and code of whatever –

          tru(e)st love of indifference


to be opposite is to come back around

even faster for having started further along the circumference

how is each day not a dilemma?

and how far does one go

          when one goes to sleep

into the paradox

          of alternate realities?

how many universes exist in a dream?


if anything needs mending please see translation ask if the oracle has needles that the contemporary needs. see if there’s a thread to tug from the last tear.


how could conditions ask any more of a situation?

sometimes a memory is enough to take it back

to the source

to set shame in place where sorrows began

and collusion draws together its own ending.

Right Direction

If I turned the other cheek would you love or hate that one? I’m all out of ways to turn. Can’t risk another mistake.


Let’s be as reasonable as a dreamer can be.


I’m not much of an innovator but I make do with what I don’t have. If there’s a utility in emptiness I’ll find it. I’ll own my omission just so you can’t.


I will be the hero of absence. My winning will not be noticed but the aftermath will be my trophy.


Hell will be in HD while heaven is so pixellated.


I think I’m coming down. If I am I hope I stop in purgatory before coming back to earth. Anywhere’s gotta be better than where I’ve been or at least a little more boring. Boring beats stressful any day. Any day beats anywhere. Anywhere beats anyhow. Anyhow always loses out to anyway.

Anyway already packed its bags and checked out.


There’s nobody to meet up with at home nor further on up the road. Too many destinations are in the way. Maybe we’ll find each other once we’re ready to pay what we owe.


never felt so normal before

it’s quite something

for an illusion

who was

made by the likes of you.

so many likes.

why so many?

who approves of this stuff?


can’t remember the last thing

I remember

nor the first.

I’m at a loss

unless I can find something new.

forgetting has a way of making space

what good were all those hoarded experiences worth anyway?


Anyway?       You’re back again? Didn’t think we’d ever meet again? What’ve you been up to?
                    Oh? Lots? Like everything? Well, I’ve been bored into digression but I’ll get back
                    on track someday. Just point me in the right direction.

Monologue Without A Speaker

“blood told as blood will” (Anne Sexton)

Lies inside will seep out. Lies inside lay in wait to betray poker face.

Lies inside place themselves on shelves on display for introspection.

Lies inside share the same roof and room with myths of interpersonal symbols.

Lies inside spare the world from the excesses of commentary.

Lies inside tar and feather thoughts.

Lies inside know what ‘it’ is.

Lies inside “treasure their scenic value.” (Anne Sexton)

Resistance Through Repetition

Harbored ship – misfortunate and mistaken waiting trying to make a clean mess of things.

Crew – dissected of poisonous minds throw thought and shine en masse overboard mercilessly as land and sea are codependent.

Captain has nothing to confess. A vessel is a church. A body – not a temple. A curse is a curse not swear or blessing this far up profane northeast coast.

Shipshape betrays wreck – imperatives, directives, reaction to change.

Hubris is where sails are made.


Whetstone for recasting, adapting, readying for recover.

What whetstone? Which?


The lamp held by night. The watch held by day.

Go on.

The raise. Up. The on-high beams whole – in total – honing. The eyes. Vision following where lit lets see. Where light let sight. By day, by night. In full range of natural to artificial perception.


Grinding, slimming down to slicing precision, the seconds of this world. Second thoughts, second chances, another attempt, another for dinner.

Reshaping requires resistance through repetition.

Long Gone

On the rest of the days I’m an empty chamber. On the best / on the worst, I’m loaded and ready to shoot.

Take integrity and do with its grit whatever can be done with it.
Have hope. Nobody has ever found the chupacabre. So, when something sucks at least we can bet that it wasn’t responsible.

Nothing is perfect. Nobody is perfect. Listen up sweetpea, the key to everlasting love is suffocation. When nothing can enter there is no room for flaws.


Safety has no space. Safe has never been accounted for. Provided for.


At work in the evening all the worries follow through the night. Enter the graveyard with me. Never shifting within my veins. But remains close to the heart.


Never sure. Never. Never accepted. Sure has been dismissed. Expelled.


Black-eyed hope’s been told once but it’s looking to remind somebody else what it won’t be told.


Strange is the life of the day. A day in the life. Ordinary is strange. How can things keep going on the same way forever? I’m forgetting what a vacation is.

It’s one of those days again. An empty day. An unfulfilled day. A donut without its cream, its jelly, its hole.


Is there another one? Like two? Or three? Some of the same sort? Something of similarity? Congruency? Oh, yes, there is monotony. A routine. A schedule to hold up the body. To keep skin and muscles working where a skeleton ought to be.


But you, you’re dead to me. Which means I’ll try to remember the good times and think of you too often and wish at oddest moments that you were here with me.


But, then again what’s there to say to another? Nothing much. Been bored. Been boring. Been quiet. Been talkative.

You spoke. I know you did. I heard something. It mattered. I’m sure of it. Why else would you speak? Talk takes work. Keeping company is a chore. A conversation is a struggle. To exchange is to suffer. Words uplift. Words defeat. I think you asked me to submit. To what? To endings? Maybe beginnings? Certainly it wasn’t to middles. Nobody cares about those. It’s always to cease or to start. But, that’s nothing I can do. I don’t believe in anything other than continuity. A world in progress.


What does survival require? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’ve long since learned how to disappear. I’m already long gone.