“Johnny can’t read”
Why Johnny can’t read
Why, Jonny can’t read

is his crisis a crisis
that crisises on
for hundred years

we ‘solved’ intelligence in fifty
we mechanized learning in a quarter
we metaphored into machines any second now

think graduating as humans is a point
as compliance to efficiency,
grading as cheese on a linear scale

with its wisdom but a pattern
as pâté for purity and 1 solution for 3 bodies
grasping BMI computing of minds thinning

Johnny, be good
johnny Be Good
But Johnny, Johnny can’t read.

—animasuri’25

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trigger

“Johnny can’t read” IN: Arendt, H. (1958, not 1954). The Crisis in Education. Partisan Review (Collected into 1961’s “Between Past and Future”), 25 (XXV)(4), 493–420. https://archive.org/details/sim_partisan-review_1958_25_index/mode/1up and https://thi.ucsc.edu/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Arendt-Crisis_In_Education-1954.pdf

“there is always a temptation to believe that we are dealing with specific problems confined within historical, [disciplinary] and national boundaries and of importance only to those immediately affected. It is precisely this belief that in our time has consistently proved false. One can take it as a general rule in this century that whatever is possible in one country [and siloed discipline] may in the foreseeable future be equally possible in almost any other“

“The sounds are’a changin’
What was vroom vroooom
Tuut toot honk, tchooky chooook
bang clang chug-chug

is‘a changin’ to fzzzzzsssst
Bleep bleep Ssssshhhhhht
Vvvvvvrt vvvrt vvvvvvrt
sssssh st st ft ft

Tip tip tap tap lookin’ down
Woooosh’n passin’ by
Bzzzzzzzzzzzz overhead
Tsssss delivered by”

Said ol’ Martha-
Gentle-Rockin’-Chair
“creeek creeeek”
warm-woodedly

listin’ in
on ‘er gran’son
play’in’
as she too ever did

—animasuri’25

With hooks, and ropes;
adorning harnesses and safety belts;
claiming base-camps, helicopters and Sherpas

With the latest theory tested to practice;
deep voiced solid narration and epic pep-talks;
tempered steel focus and hardened grit

With paving ways for caravans to follow;
circling the spoils of gained ground;
feeding the fire, trampling the grid

Water mountains they climb.

                —animasuri’24

I wake while sound sleeps
the pumping of blood
from an accelerating heart
trying tinnitus, buzzing into the brain

as far as an eye can see
no bathroom lights, kitchen lights
no late night living room brawls
nor a balcony staring back with a full glass

I wake while songs, sons ‘n’ Sun sleep
a physiological soundtrack underscores singleness:
gurgling interiors, rushing fluid
snapping joints, groans the still could hear

the acidic burn of last night’s dinner
reminds me in early hours: we carry histories
in organs, consequences in flesh;
or so I do. I do.

I wake while counting the rings and ribs
of a slice of tree and a trunk of life
it’s all there, drunken with memory

there is no serenity during one’s wake

                           —animasuri’24

Along the chilled chiseled rusticated ashlar
precipitation meets my cheek.

A gentle awakening as of a kiss from that universal lover unknown yet ever around and taken for granted.

Is the drop still whole when shǒu dāo’ed by the ulnar edge of a hand.

Tea drips down my throat. A drop of blood. Life drips the clock from edges of booked shelves.

Its mastery and peace remains; as eyes pass.

—animasuri’24

My hand, are you an extractive institution, the palpitator of the prohibited without consent, the weeder of functionality for the belly and urge you serve, the flattener of crosstalk, pushback, checks and spars. Are you the tentacle testing dryness of fertile soils fiddling futility. My hand, are you the conductor of fingers at sleep, slight of hands and sneaky Freudian slips, do you slide under tables fondling brown paper envelopes or stockings alike, protruding the questionable ever unanswerable in the shades and twilight of movements in largesse distracting from the emptiness of words. My hand, do you carry callouses as cradles to civilization building of master’s bate when imagining lands of others to caress yet ever care for by exploitation, hand-eye coordination and umping silences of labor unspeakable outside the gloss of design and architectured relations in empires handled by history. My hand, do you slap, slither, slit and slide. Do you hide in the palm and knuckles of a fist do you frequent trebles or bass or frequencies of grace. Are you daily an absolute beginner and touch the nascency of companionship with tender tips?

—animasuri’24