You are a rotely opinion-headed zeitgeister— already diagnosed and hooked up to the slow death of a dystopiclly present despot's di(e)ialysis machine creating simulacric smackstackey musings
Grassfires accented the hot season but we were always safe: a dirt road between the cinder block wall and the grassland’s edge served as our moat of solid ground
I cannot walk the park and miss its crop of needles. I cannot reach for fish behind glass without scales impaling my wrists. Those trees I admired, the ones syringe-like in winter. Yes, needles.
You’re not evolving. At all. Steve Jobs gave you an iPhone maybe, and yet cancer took him away. Your technology changes here and there, but you, as creatures, do not.
Can you love zero? Can you camp in a swing? Can you change your ‘state’? to massive missile attack drone saying, take precautions extra ones, even uneven lethal nonlethal netting
Sun’s smiling behind shining swathes of pinks, purples, phloxes, and puce She’s got some secrets, she does Pretty planets pirouette round her seeking her inner surprises and silences
I see in hologram, in mental disruptions, decoded into light and vibes, waves, salty seas, open drains. A tachyonic plague that spirals sideways, colliding minds into these bionic bodies.
And a smoky ghostlike Face had come to the Dead Boy’s mother Tammy in a dream, and said many incomprehensible things, which Tammy thereby did phone in to the local radio show and soon Tammy was with child.
