And in case you have forgotten, I am the teller, I am the chip, I am the change. I am the zone, I violate the zone, hide art rocks in corporate spaces—I am the muck on the wall, the bacteria, the grime. I am disease. I am the code behind the wall, allowing this emoji disallowing that emoji and the frankincense and myrrh rattle down throughout the ages. Some rocks can never roll—some rocks step into a bar and what is the punchline? That I will never see my name in an amber alert? That I will never see my face in a bucket of wine? A holy Ledbetter embossed in hipster stationery a fake bee buzzing around my head you know the kind that can't sting and I don't know what they do if they're not harvesting honey. We'd like to be gentle to me, laid out on the day of my lasting missives echoes in the warehouse whorehouse House of 1000 Corpses long-wasted loft spaces where I woke in my imagination, boy of my dreams at these lovely sides. Killer whales have to be the most disgusting killers on the blue and green—not even people bashing the heads of baby seals can live up to them. Wanted to lost myself in liquid crystal—70 inch display immerses me. I am the top of the wave. I am the curse of the fin. I hid a message in my blog if you read every 12th letter my true name is spelled for kings in binary—fulfilling dreams sewn by Princess Toadstool (an error to make it human)—you realize writing is a visual art, don't you? And down a slide, Super Mario slide, for once in 3d my candles watch me make for the waterfall, falling off the edge of the Earth is nothing new to me—I took a parachute with me when I went rock climbing, ice picks when I conquered Everest and a blumpkin was how I first seduced young cum into my party pouch nothing like a Dorito fine-tined a burrito blam! taco mouth dizzying the sushi eater's downright paradise. We ate one of everything on the menu parachuting from pixel-blue skies there was a bug in the code and I couldn't play the seventh level of heaven 'cause of some programmer who was drinking on the job. My code—the ultimate one between my legs and rampant every cell—it has no errors. Even a mutation is on purpose—shining in the light of history mistakes of my kind are Pollock-like, form pools of mystery, I don't crash, I don't crash until the ultimate moment when People magazine Time and Life and Channel 12 conspire at once to show us knickknack pictures it is my nature to infect, I am perfect in alien form, infecting the basic format of your existence. That is what is known about me—nothing. Nothing kissing the sky and nothing making microwave dinners each night with packages delivered to my window by drone—there's your satisfaction, there's your drum. Your salt was caught in my tears—I was salmon hunting, I took the lost-one's journey, ended up growing au naturel Where the Red Fern Grows and took me medieval style I was under the leaf it was red and yellow and rough edges and it spoke to me a prophet then sang weapon/death—shofar—spun off the whole contraption as a vehicular time machine they called into the radio station knowing more than General Public and for five seconds the radio transmission went to shit. It happens when whole countries dissent—we have our finger not on a plug but on a button, dyslexic training of a man of cobras of a bra sardines packaged in a bowl of feces fetus fecal lowliness in a rip tide undersight dipping cigs in a futile toilet—there—there—there. An underling ashing in that there gas station toilet but I am underneath the waves! I am godlike the scum underneath the bottom of this pond we call our evering notion of turbulence and blue. And the radio man says I will flush this ocean blue and the radio man says I am a dastardly god of witness and scruff—telling you the stories your mother denied, telling the themes and the characters and the subjects your whole culture denied!—that is the wish box between my legs a coupla flapjacks some blueberry syrup a few strands of chicken and the classic Filet-O-Fish from Burger King. I'll have a couple sides of rice, the innards of a dictator, Che patties of industrial beef, maybe some canisters of military-style soul food—was that it? Was that the sought combination? The anti-twin? The cobblestone earring tied doubt to a kangaroo? Insert a statement from Bruce Willis here—something an action hero can say eloquently in a single day of reshoots. Why don't you cuss out the cameraman? Why don't you cuss out the lighting technician? Show everyone how insanely creative you are—I make babies, how creative is that? How creative to stick a wand between my legs wallow convulse engender re-engineer busy-fy, execute, produce, muffin contained in the back row, stockers arranging ice cream alphabetically, delicately kneading starstruck zipperfuckers, age-old ant-lions, twin stars revolving to each other's spin, a cantilever at the bottom of my pool—a septic tank—loving and caring for the elderly, aging pussies raped by nurses from the other continent, spanking lips of who I shall become—a pool of consciousness strapped to a hospice bed—and before you implant me with cum, let me tell you that I will never produce babies again, I am forward, past the mark, delectable in my granny pants and safe for us both to pretend that if there was no me, you would fuck somebody else.