Friday, February 12, 2010

Downloaded: Paratactic Pterodactyls

"...Am blossoming withered paper
wrinkles." Ink flowers trampled
under cellophane silhouettes looking
for shiny plastic airwaves. Smiles
haunt. Screwdrivers and water
bottles make no sense. Heidegger confuses,
which pushes buttons. Meditate on
spiritual mediations. No point, really.
Peasants run and hide. Pizzas unfolding
boxes and cybernetic connections. Touch me,
please. I am more than unwrapped
technology with a magic marker psyche. Listen close
and you can hear me quake, rumble
buildings. Fall. Becoming. We. Unite.
Such small things, the folds in wrinkled
ink. Narratives consumed, repackaged, readjusted,
and sold anew. Shifting pastiche. Sliding.
Where am I on the chessboard now? Downloaded.
Digitized. Hypnotized. Lobotomized. Choking on ash
and rose petals. Compartments compartmentalize.
We are the great shoe box. Fading Kodak captures,
what's the point? Slipped on ice. Broke the reptile's
tail-bone and fooled the evolutionary wizard.
I'm still mud-soaked and gilled, swimming lazy
creek currents yonder. Soil ascension, purple cloth
and incense. Bells chiming, AUM. Wax and feathers
fly. Oceans below. Oceans above. Only light melts.
Only I fall. Stripped wallpaper hanging on the butcher's
hook. The woman sauntered to the table; marbled street cafe; a
man, in black, offered her a light; she inhaled; smiled.
Espressos came. The sun swallowed them whole.
More ash. Like Devil's snow. A pair of shoes sit. Old men wander the icy
streets at dawn. Their bebop rhythm and spirits bopped out.
The starry dynamo turned out to be a pinball machine, cheap
with Pepsi and fries. Glycerin fat-soaked hearts sliding
through rusted plumbing. A young girl picked some flowers
from her mother's garden. Kites sailed. This
cannot end, no matter how bizarre. It shifts and twists until
it cannot shift no more and folds into its
folds. The book completed decides to read itself. Mad that its
true readers seek high-speed downloads. The sentence
pauses from itself to smell the flowers described on the
page. It's spring. The garden grows in the
next paragraph. It says to the book (itself), "I
Am blossoming withered paper
wrinkles." Ink flowers trampled
under cellophane silhouettes looking
for shiny plastic airwaves. Smiles
haunt.

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