The sadness hole. No tours today, no tours today—the mystery is closed. Visitors report to the cashier for a refund. New tours will be announced tomorrow. Check your email.
Trail of ants—parade—I watch from the window of my dollhouse. Everything to scale: miniature glass—warped by sunlight, miniature rocking chair and miniature bed. A miniature ruler that measures in miniature inches. Miniature penis and miniature cunt (I have mine right here). To stroke like a lion and make her purr—kitty in the steep, steep jungle. I told my boy in 10th grade I had a jungle between my legs and to stop over but he gave me phone sex for hours and I had to go local for my first dish of sperm. They let it go like an infinite quantity—don't seem to see how beautiful it is. Precious, really, a star of stars, the brilliant glob of toothpaste that goes up in, causes miracles, brings my pouch alive. There is a single clown sitting halfway back watching Stephen King's It in the theater—I watched it on the news. Rarely do I see a story that interests me but anyway I sit, on the swivel chair, in my PJs, plugging myself with a finger and browsing for my kind. My entire room is inside the hole—we are floating like jackrabbits, entering and exiting the womb (normal traffic) bloody on the package but inside my chamber dry—constantly putting on and taking off socks, t-shirts, wool hats to regulate our heat. Can't be too warm. Can't be too cold. Can't be too wet. Can't be too dry. Experiment with outfits to accomplish this. Tattooing around the head wound, scorched bone, close range, probably executed. That's how hot is the hottest spot. Popsicle in the jungle—pube hair from adolescence smells like a sweaty puma licking you on the nightstand. Mozart bows her head on the upright and keys a single note for hours, days—this is our fate. Heat death crawls me to a standstill, the hands of the clock, stop. Not even gold and silicon work below the zero—only a slug riding my fallopian—only a network of six to 10 million dopamine antagonists called "Frank" is the final resting place of a term (first used this date, last used that) and yes there is such a thing as improvised architecture you can build things safe and interesting with no plan—if you think small enough. But I can't breathe here—that is the truth—not with a stethoscope, not with a snorkel, not with nitrous and helium and air tanks from the circus. A woman falls—terrible from the Ferris wheel—dresses flapping in the wind—she reaches out her arms in front and breaks them as she breaks her fall. She is the last-moment vision of children who will never be the same, children who were not even tall enough to ride this ride—children struck dumb for the rest of their lives. In my vision only disabled people reproduce—we are all unable—leaning on the machine more and more—the machine in us—the mech we created, first in science fiction then in science fact—we are all of us hapa—all of us trans-schema—all of us part everything. And when you cut me open you will see graffiti on my insides, every organ tagged—the niceties of soul transfigured, scraped in blood, phase space a canvas rented for twelve dollars a year off a server in south Seoul—that will be the least of your worries. Most of all an animus legend centering on a certain Tekken character doing capoeira that I memorized all his moves that drove me day to day, sidewalk square to sidewalk square when I used to leave the house the boy part came from me kicking assholes on a legendary squall. The lens cap fell off and these are the snapshots I see on the way down—through Victoria Falls Brazilian rain some kind of tundra only fit for a sled dog these are a catalog of places I'll never get to see I am strapped to a stretcher on that long last haul through fluorescent halls overcrowding in the healing place but weapons dealers three to one which has become a perennial joke to you but was the really real gun in child safety videos from the year before 2018. Chop me in thirds like the Hirst/Cohen shark and become the impossibility of imagining me dead when I am speaking to you now—over and over and over, sea blood and formaldehyde, life before jellyfish, nitrogen was plenty and you could grow a flower anywhere. But let me tell you something. As friendly as our intercourse is here, if you came into my room I would strip you of your pieces turn you over and give a soul spanking with my daddy's belt—you would evacuate the storm but all of that would be too late—shredding you like the cheapest chicken—tossing you in the blood fryer—reinvigorate your theories with a new set off truths—there is a spirit for the taking and it has your name. All the while you have been waiting (doctor) at the exit of my baby tubes, I have been standing behind you! and waiting to catch the catcher, blood and rye, channeling the recluse intern, scalpel at your back, running to the snack machine to grab Doritos to pour inside your wound and pick them there sustain me as I connect your tubes to mine. The first-ever baby junkets to scathe the Middle East. Torrent. Suffocant harms. Bleeding your dreams. Tiny dancer breeding, scabs on the gusset. I was a folk singer in 1975. I brought the free-love culture into a decade when Nordstrom markets crotchless panties far from the fringe sexual advert is mainstream here is your Toblerone here is that axe you ordered here is the scythe your momma wants if you are to survive I suggest an English-French dictionary and a puddle—flat with all the wrongs of yesterday.