Small machines look like history. They say ok ok
ok and only kind of mean it. Your job
is to be consistent
with circles. First task: transcribe the secant
of the god-other in triplicate.
ASAP, and no, you cannot use your personae.
What I am doing now is developing horrible habits.
I say this to my roommate when he asks and he says
I believe you.
The next technique involves watching
the skypenis youtube commercial
and mouthing exactly that famous
final phrase: Think about what skypenis
can do for you.
I’m going to dig out all of the e’s
from our mud-cased thoughts and build a factory
that will put us at the mercy of rectangles.
We can all hide there, for a while.
A real horse runs in circles around the god-other.
A real horse kicks the god-other in the skypenis
and says ok ok ok I’ll stop when you do.
Please, tell the story that is not this one
which pretends it is not, but actually is
the story of my becoming,
tell the one about your brother
and the bird with a hole through its ribs.
Please, tell me that one again.
All my friends on television
are dying violent violence deaths
which can look like cancellation or
a motorcycle chase with bullets
and sun flares.
Today, the moon is a unicycle
and it is supposed to be a joke.
We take off west and invent forgiveness
using each other’s pale light.
God shapes murmur on the horizon—
they want to put a t-shirt in my prostate.
I am okay with that. I’m just not so sure
about the Mickey Mouse choice
they’re keen on.
The big big bloody.
I untie knots of road and they retie elsewhere.
I put watermelon bullet holes in the inner inner
where everyone will know to find them.