[098]
07/25/2011 10:50 p.m.

she roles over and says to him, 'those are the crooked children;
they are born with piano-key teeth and news-print eyeballs,
emaciated shadows and no language,
and when they open their mouths and wiggle their tongues all
that comes out is pink foam.'

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[097]
05/18/2011 05:28 p.m.


In the mid-morning he drops a glass, he's down to about three now.
Barefeeted and boxer-briefed, he stands frozen arms askew and contemplative
and eventually picks his way on pointed toes over the blast-zone, sweeps up the
refuse and drops the jangling bits into the bin. The little scratchers hide amongst
shining dust and questionable leavings. He picks up a piece of white bread, kneels,
and dabs up the gleaming leftovers, his knees bleeding.


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[096]
05/07/2011 01:28 p.m.

unfinished:

On a sunny morning, he founds the Higgs Boson.
It was snuggled up under his pillow as if waiting.
Things, for him, in this bed, had been colliding
recently and then one day just BAM: the most
important theoretical particle was there, fetal
and new but old old old.

His presented his monumental findings to the
community at once, but the reaction was not
as hoped. There was at first some uncomfort-
able shuffling and then some polite murmurs,
but he knew how they felt: the Higgs Boson was
never really meant to be found.

The disappointment was paramount. There were
secretive tears and behind-the-back expletives.
Thousands of people lost their jobs, their entire
existence previously having been dedicated to this
quest. The imperceptible giants that were the
super-colliders fell into disrepair.

Furrowed into a global depression, the academic
minds all got together and made a decision: as far
as they were concerned, it was better to have
satisfying questions than subtractive answers.
Everyone agreed.

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[095]
04/25/2011 12:35 a.m.

scraps:

When they got together and invented war
they considered first L-Glutamate --
How delicious it makes everything and
why.

They thought, if the cooking and drying
and pounding of proteins have, until
now, yielded only good taste and full
stomachs, then should not the
institutionalization of mass protein
decay result similarly?

This logic proves flawless, and their
invention is a hit, the salivary
enchantment palpable.






Sucking on a robin's egg, she wonders which will win out:
the acidic quality of her saliva,
or the incubating quality of her body temperature.

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[094]
03/23/2011 03:25 p.m.

scraps:

my brain is full of fluff. kara has been force fed water
from the moment she was born and now, eighteen
years later, has a belly distended and heavy with
bloat.

she can feel the trickle thing her blood stream and
her brain swells in her skull cavity to fill the cranial
cracks -- it pushes through. her cells gulp for
sodium and become full of empty liquid. constricted,
she falls comatose.

a doctor comes to anoint her with holy water.




the fig trees and the fig wasps are engaged in
peace treaty negotiations.

the trees are trying with some difficulty to regain
lost territory but the fig wasps just keep moving
in and taking up residencies in their fruit.

despite diplomatic attempts by the figs, the wasps
understand only force. the trees begin dropping
their fruit, heavy & laden with larva. the wasps
agree to make concessions.

the major species pus in two directions:
half say that the trees and the wasps should
separate entirely. half know better -- the trees
and the wasps are inextricable economically and
socially.




BUNBUNBUNBUNBUN. que deliciosa.




wasps can grow to the size of walnuts if
cultivated correctly. the Japanese, re:
wasps, have thrown their tradition of
bonsai-fication out the window. instead
they prune and primp them up to
monster sizes.





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[093]
03/22/2011 02:03 a.m.
Luna & Terra:


Luna grows weary of keeping the time and the tides for Terra. Luna loves Terra. Terra’s surface
in his full phase shines sixty times brighter to Luna, than Luna does to Terra, and Luna loves Terra.
But Luna is tired of keeping the time and tides for Terra; it is time Terra grew up.

And Luna is also tired of Terra moving so slowly. It takes so many days for him to make his orbit, yet
Luna orbits a day at a time. No more, says Luna. This relationship has grown unfair. Luna deserves
better treatment and a celestial body that will give her the attention she deserves. Luna pulls away.

Each year, Luna yanks and yanks and manages approximately five inches. Terra doesn’t notice at first.
He’s been busy lately and likes the break from constant communication. But forty years down the line
his day is suddenly thirty seconds longer. How did this happen? He pleads with Luna – you are too far
away, he says. Come back. Come trawl my seas, come organize me.

Luna ignores Terra. It is time to be her own heavenly form. She pulls away. They argue over the separation
for ten billion years, and when Luna finally turns back to Terra, he is so far away and his rotation has slowed
so much that her month and his day are one.


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[092]
03/07/2011 09:32 p.m.
A single sphere swaggers in and provokes
the various other geometrical patrons of this
establishment.

It is attacked by a particularly irritable
irregular rhomboid and split into thousands
of pieces.

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[091]
03/01/2011 11:20 p.m.

Scraps:

We can’t have sex because you don’t have the CCR5-Δ32 gene. If you had the CCR5-Δ32 gene I would be more likely to have sex with you.



If she made babies they’d be pale like death and exhausted. They would drink wasabi and curry flavored breast milk and misunderstand crucial social cues.

She says “My uterus is the size of a grapefruit,” and a delicious image of mitosis bursts into view like caviar and spittle.

Full of antibiotics, all of the bacteria in the mouth die in squeaks and jitters and the result is a metallic bitterness like the aftermath of swallowing pennies – “Did you know,” she says to me she says, “That it already has a tongue?” It is tasting an affectionate amniotic fluid and growing as with clay, building and building in an offshoot.


Things I like:
Liminal situations.
Memristers.
Piezoelectricty.
L-Glutamate.
Soldering, circuit building, fig wasps.
Coral reef colonies, angler fish.
The pedagogue.
Pity-hate.
The gene inherited from the Black Plague.
Oxytocin.




Because of a switch in the brain he understands sound both as sound and as flavor. There is thus church music that tastes like tomato tortellini soup, and sex that quenches like melting ice.

This does not, however, work in reverse: ten-cent ramen noodles and cold soy sauce does not necessarily imply the first-Tuesday-of-the-month-test-siren, though it does the other way ‘round. As a result his meals feel colorless.

Every once in a while this girl calls him while she is with someone else, and leaves the phone to the side, and allows him to lap at her own experiences – to loll amongst derisive laughter or the coo of an offer accepted.
She does this during dinnertime especially. If she is alone, she will sing for him in terrible pitch and read portions of data sheets about Texas Instruments microchips, a spice to an otherwise dull consumption. She is compiling a lexicon of tastes in the hopes of building a taste-opera tailored specifically to him, a twelve course meal of crossed wires.



Comments (2)

[090]
11/26/2010 03:22 p.m.

The Mexican cart on the corner sells chicharrones fried in the fat of pure dissonance. They take the music of John Cage and Igor Stravinsky and cook it down to its essential form, throw in pinwheels of dough, and you buy the outcome in bags for one dollar and twenty five cents.

Crunching through them, the noise disrupts your neurons. They try, desperately, to find a pattern and fail, chirp chirping in haggard bundles and spitting out dopamine in pillets.

You hallucinate wildly, and become aware of certain things:

1. It would be easy to predict the future by randomly selecting a passage from "The Complete Book of Erotic Art Volumes I & II."
2. That time a church mouse got stuck in your printer was a harbinger of your inability to communicate.
3. Your heart is not made of fire. It is instead an intricate series of pumps and valves and caverns, a disappointing epiphany.
4. Sometimes you cannot feel your partner's genitalia inside of your own genitalia.

As the realizations his you, the paranoia sets in. You have felt this anxiety before, but cannot shake it. You are certain that someone will punish you for the grievous act of eating chicharrones by forcing you to eat fried oysters and kiss boys that taste like rotting fruit.

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[089]
11/26/2010 03:17 p.m.

who's got a mind full of stubbly armpit hair and eyes full of shame? he'll cum into your heart with his head down and his toes curled. he'll be wearing religious icons that hang about like dripping tendrils, shooting up the backs of his legs like severed achilles' tendons kaSHOOP!

the south pole is full of superstition.

the doldrums are full of superstition. be influenced by what you see. tick tick tick tick. get out your dick and jack it.

jilling off. THREE KNUCKLE SHUFFLE. FLICKING THE BEAN. there's a certain amount of crude straightforwardness that's acceptable in every day society.

he ain't pretty, girly, but he knots your nethers in a tither, tithing tining. out of the blue, out of the blue. he ain't exactly fancy, classy, or fine. he should shower more often, make more money, be smart and presentable, he is none of these things.

do you deserve any better?

you will be called out and punished for your crimes, little one. for committing such atrocities you will be tarred and feathered, fettered, you will be forced to eat fried oysters and kiss boys who taste like rotting fruit. your face will be marred by age and you will be loved regardless but not understand how.

i don't entirely understand.

biblical names grow weary, biblical names grow weary, oh sweet, poor thing, biblical names grow weary.

rumpus of folks, a pile a pile, all writhing. some are comforted, some dis-so. there come times where you can't feel your partners genitalia inside of your own genitalia. slippery. so yeah.

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