Startled by the décor of the logic gates a portrait stands tall with the genial spirit. Black plastic patent pending the diameter of your wrist – about three inches small. Its vinyl bindings pinch the thighs – running down the double wide. An optical cable. Rods of refracted light marbled between cork and wainscot. Logic as such lines up watching subroutines work their way to the top.
Already written, the book talks back but with different hair.
It has knobs on. It takes its miniature fabrics off. Hollow when sawed through – a Ken doll with plastic flesh. These contradictions only prove K exists. The illusion of an argument alive in the eye. Feeling an arc that guides each step. The constraint of a three-legged race. Or a tumbling apart that produced silence.
We’ve become there – as adjacents. Ready to wear. Enacted in body words populate the gestures that own us.
The Universe In The Creak Of A Bedspring
1 week ago
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This changes everything. The logic gates swing open, exciting our chins. I see tables of squash and a milky algebra. Public tubes, intriguing hats, and a feeling of eyes delicately catalogued in sparks. The portrait fidgets in garlic. Pushing it only makes the drawing engorge with gargoyles. Eating is more than bubbles, gluttony more than a private emphasis. Galvanization explains how the forks got there, but not the tidepool, or napkins. We all fold our napkins in our own individual manner. The constraints are unbuttoned for feathers, the airports for meaning. Flight, garrulity, and expedition. Experimental hair. Olives in a minor key. It is clear at last. Diving while swollen leads to Portugal.
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