Christmas madness—finding the last gift has been opened, the child goes insane. Less and less still equals excess. A blockbuster hurricane is now in its infancy.
Stay tuned forever. Don’t leave us. We prescribe blizzard, pathos, the celebrity seal hunt, important information on Aerosmith’s new roller coaster, and child pornography so explicit we can’t even show it to you on TV. We fly above the buzzards now. Starvation is a crime. Sports is next.
Three more minutes of life at 200 million dollars, mouth watering before impact, the trillionaire inherits more time. Freedom’s just another word for the insane safety standards of people who’ve discovered they have everything to lose. They’ve got the guns AND the numbers now—gratuitous surgery, speeches in empty rooms, spilling the best kept secret since the afterlife. Aging well will kill us all.
iv. big government
Shit, another casino is on fire. The bridges are falling down. The schools need to be retaught everything they think we already know. Self-evident as truths that no one sees until carried to logical, foreseeable, disastrous conclusions and the wringing of glands. The future is in our hands, but we’re wearing someone else’s gloves. There’s never good news. The galactic machine does no wrong.
Tough times. So many rules, all of them changing. Foreign flags drift upon inhuman seas, all blood and foam and blue. Human weather lifts its thunderhead. The talk gets ugly. Like we’re comparing atrocities. Only we unify like a firing squad. Anyone wanting to point fingers will find no one he can do so to.
It functions but it shouldn’t, like the body of the bumblebee. Some truth is rock. Some truth is water that evaporates.
Extraordinarily serious—the situation now. Too many human pennies minted, tossed away. Mexico floods, Kurds bleed. Super Mario shows up in Africa, KFC and Pepsi on the streets of Khartoum. The babies are getting less cute and the cannibals need room.
Everything comes back in style—cold blood, voracity, nudity, stupidity—the dinosaur made manifest. Crystal tings as we break blue buildings out of steel. Engines prowl. Agendas swell. Limbs overburdened with muscle crumble at knee or neck. Our asylum is the safest. The future must be inhumane, or very superhuman.
Think Israel and DNA, maps of Uganda, maps of Mozambique, rock stars and geishas lost in a rhizometric forum of superb engineering. Green steel launches itself into blue fire. Escalations match escalations. We rise in inflated equilibrium to the foreseeable lessening. Born free. Still in chains. Dead bird. Manta ray.
We know why we’re here. Our very belief is describing the shape of decline AND a resurrection so
unexpected you’ll say it must have been happening all along. The heart is a warm place. And the cherry on top of the nuclear bomb.
Stop sign at the commingling hyenas drooling on prime real estate. Girl with missile headdress and slave with fresh meat and microchips. Prairies checkered as a hobo in the pith of agribusinessland. Still savage, still reaching out of the chemical luau for hope both light and night have crimed. Give us pictures of Jesus, the Maasai with the AK47, the Maseratis and the singing steel. Together we’ll sort it out. There is no path. You just arrive.
San Fran car chase, wakka wakka cloud. The illusions shatter: historical byproducts sluicing backward in a slime of cholera memories, embarrassing press conferences, informational enigmas. Patterns meld, insane dictators emerge, get crushed, leaving diamonds in the void. Reenacted pop stars fall pantsless from million-dollar motorcars.
xii. R & D
It’s hard to know which impossibilities are worth realizing, which frontier has no void. See Snow White with her gas mask. Pull open curved glass to the starry network glowing like the seeds of tossed candy pills and an island on fire. The truth is really in here. With every obstacle removed: the gate, the moat, and the watchtower.
What a relief to find what you wanted was all wrong. All along the answers trailed you like delicious lambs trailed you like unwelcome wolverines. Lilies and oranges for the morning. Lower taxes for Christmas. Solidarity among varying objectives. (Terminology is so vast.) My surveillance invents your crimes.
Deathquake—puritans unchained [sound of glass breaking] and white animals hanging from the sky. Bright red minutes pass. Forged in soft light between the stems of plastic plants and photographed in mauve, I stand up like the breast of Cinema itself. Thawing like a billion-dollar diamond in the heart of Anaheim. Pretty soon we’re all communicating with the dead. And now I'm the one leaving the theater.
xv. k st.
Total and complete and ready to disintegrate, we subscribe to common sense until things get specific. Dial hotline to CEO for the latest in Lesotho politics. Forge class-action jellyfish. Die bravely but still die. It doesn’t matter if I’m right. There’s no way I can be wrong. The protest never makes it past the tear gas.
You should be doing more than you’re capable of. Created equal only to prey on those who look like you could take them. Walk with your loyalists. Strike Aztec fear. Imagine foaming jails. Prompt the Rapture by provoking disaster. Airplanes are mating in mid-sky. A man without money is an animal. Throw him in the yard.
Pioneer decadence: Motherboard city unboxing form and function til dreams and city wells run dry. Eggshell-thin as days go by. Cracks in the aluminum side. Parking lots where fields used to lie. The wolves are all dead. Now peace hunts the deer with nothing to fear but the leaves and the rocks and the birds in disguise.
Everything is dying. Live. All is receding. Surge. No one is buying. But me.
Arctic sea calm as the early morning dancefloor. Conspiracy wears midnight blue like the seas of maps in geopolitical press rooms: deep ocean worms, the scalp of the plume, Somalians at the Taj Mahal baked beyond black. All fitting together like the notes of the humane piano. I’m having chest pains. I'm having visions of a truly green tomorrow. Let the stodder burn.
Tom and Jerry on skyvision, temples of Angkor Watt pulsing in the checkered tealest sunlight. The pink roadsters of kamikaze joyrides enter a galaxy of branches, pears, and shells bitter as some Ken doll locked in the tube of a jet stuck for all eternity on the landing strip, unable even to taxi. 1+2=? But what does it mean, don't you know?
It's not transparent. I can see right through it. Our sales took a pounding (laughter). But the candidates aren’t sure what torture is. One more appliance has burned its motor down. I am the asteroid silently tumbling toward your demise. I’m sorry for everything I imply. I'll crush you politely now. Bless God and the infant blue sky.
Don’t cry. It’s only super Tuesday. In our continuing apocalypse, that counts for something more than Islamic sunsets, mandatory bank check, genetic moonscape, lotto ticket jackpot. Dip your finger purple, and Jesus Christ, Allah.
Engulf. Formalize. Maneuver. Interface. Force into structure yields new desire out of the fire—equality under the dream. I see an octopus with a clock eating itself on the lip of a rifle waiting to coruscate. Birthquake. Icon bomb. Disintegrating vapor trail. The phoenix does its magic at the speed of light spreads its wings o’er me—putting the meaning back into the meaningless. The global dove has no appetite like mine. Virgins await me. What awaits you?
xxiv. the valley
No nadir and nothing more than fully human. One long transaction of salt and milk, a secret alliance forever the same. The glands in extremity rule. The hamhock forearm, bound too tight like a chemistry journal. The mouth as luxury resort. Tinker and adjust the lighting. Open up the doors.
Forget the stones. The hard work is done. Climb up with your pebble. We’ll crown the sky, dust by grain of dust. If and when you fall, do not worry about us.
Perceptive and hungry in a brightening field, I opened up to alternate charges. Formula One poison arrow frog racing through bridal-gown canyon-engine of the earth’s core. The scent of burning cash on World Orgasm Day. Scapegoats for the easily inflamed. Bikini-clad biocandy, delighting as the eve of a secular holiday.
xxvii. the hill
Whenever the eye removed its costumes, a bacterial conscience was splitting new worries, dividing like viruses proud of their motility and stick. Put it in inflammatory context and await expulsion from the news cycle. Anyone talking this much can't possibly be speaking the truth. I speak for the irresponsible why? Oops, I did it again and again and again.
Aboriginal Mustang drag races in hot space rockets thru lapis fields, malachite belts—the cold stone of administration. All atrocities are fakes to some. Let rain your pamphlets, fleshograms, timestorms, Vietnam’s defoliated pheasants, free civilians. Cut me at your own risk. There's a penis in the sky over Islamabad to night. I am everything I can destroy. And everything you want to save.
Piece by piece you pick it up alone. X number of the constructed necessities—corn, computers, chemicals down silty beaded streams will flow. It’s all a circus but I don’t have to fuck the clowns. Don’t believe the bile. You can live a full life in exile.