five statements referencing a struggle with autoantibodies and postmodernism

i.
the reduction of earth into a discrete and paginated triangular format, intended to fool the listening public into believing that there really is a fiery sanctuary at the molten core, or more appropriately, that performing music backwards so that its sonic phenomenology becomes a matter of its initial decay was first proposed as a means of controlling cultural entropy by a group of artists and writers working under the influence of electricity during the first half of the twenty-first century.
ii.
the last of the books have been converted into an effervescent plasma that can be easily disseminated along neural pathways via subcutaneous injection, using needles tuned to the previously forgotten radio frequencies of youth. you may choose to sing along while we restore your sense of humanity through the confirmation of flesh and its inherent fragility in a world made from stormy oceans and unfinished novels.
iii.
and so they gathered their tools and made trees or other artifices of nature from the bright colors in their palette, abandoning white and its titanium implications forever. on the other side of town, photographs poured dourly out of the gallery, slithering away into the night. they left traces of silver in their wake and that element was isolated; it was used to further the polemical ambitions and sustainability of what had previously been referred to as the avant garde.
iv.
i have been modified at the cellular level. scientists made a superbly byzantine molecule, globular in its profound and cumbersome manifestation, from the ashes of the dead. someone in uniform brought it to me on the wings of an aluminum bird and I ate heartily from it, though it was as cold as winter and reeked of ionic discharge.
v.
when outerspace is finally conquered i want to be there.

spukhafte fernwirkung, volume j

I found a fort made from moon rocks, the grey kind that have been handled by cosmonauts and buffeted by cosmic rays hurled outward into the abyss by the vibrating representatives of shiva himself. of course it is always dark there and tomorrow's punishing haircut is guaranteed to be as rough as the irregularity of ocean waves. that is what punk rock is all about.
they had a party there. everyone stood around in costumes, affecting the forlorn poses of sea captains or new wave charlatans who seemed to understand the implications of quantum entanglement. someone is passed out in the back bedroom; a tantrika from the guild of backwards projectionists guards the threshold.
across the wooden sea, in the front room, which is a cloister formed from fish bones and repurposed atomic ashes, she sits alone, resembling white plastic starlight or hidden, arcane crevices in the earth. her father's boots are an adornment.
our conversation is florid, filled with trembling hands, crisis management, and references to the smiths. the sun is still eight hours away, she says with eyes like horses.
her phone number continues to haunt me. the digits are either cranes or molecular pathways, and that is a kindness resembling water.

fish and flower

he floats through a fluid that became fanciful in the absence of snow. she unfolds symmetries and systems while facing the sun. they sometimes appear as a white light whose convolutions have been precisely described in the agricultural journals and mechanical drawings bound to the permanently creased spine of winter. the mystery of burnt paper, the fragrance of a bright autonomy, is sustained through a mechanism of considerable strength embedded within the structural components of their smoky emanations. these forms are similar to objects. when viewed through the sullen fortress of their default formatting, they resemble furniture hewn from trees whose lenses are opaque from repeated immersions in the loamy soil associated with redemptive acts.

here is a fish, there is a flower. the contents of the earth are spilled out, a rough blanket made from their speculative rituals. the result is similar to meat, but filled with infinitesimally small spirit entities. electrical activity can be traced to the cellular level.

in the age of smoking mirrors

now, the world is broken into elusive fragments, sharp and shaped like snowfall, devoid of moonlight, or afterwards, hungry. a mathematical equivalent of fire is on display in the tunnels and makes a furnace of the passage forward. while swallowing warm gasoline and examining the dust for traces of my own victory against the frozen solemnity of ashes, i cultivate meek and aged gardens whose flowers are designed to promote their own resurgence.
the winter constellations flare with ironic certainty. birds rise up again to dance in the air. my expectations are derived from books about astronomy, borrowed with electronic precision from television screens made exclusively from the barren winter and its sterile progeny. blue transmissions collapse wanly against the wall of night. everything that burns will escape on wings made from hot, hovering steel; the precious new corn.

an object known as the lord

in the days of low resolution, men - because it was mostly men influencing or controlling events in that self-propelled age of ruin; it was them doing the planning and building and looking over the horizon, even though it was the women-folk who new the names of the stars and steadfastly exercised intimacy with the cycles of growth and decay that circumscribed the mystery of agriculture - men erroneously but earnestly believed in the limits described in the structures of books and so, had faith in the placement of pages, one following another, like butterflies bound to linear regularity, wholly ignorant of migration.

with this theory in place at libraries throughout the realm (here, the reader is asked to recall that this narrative refers to a variation of reality unencumbered by a shared global intelligence and consequent meta-understanding of planetary history) it was possible to produce and display books whose physical characteristics each symbolized discrete universes, each world literally and wonderfully bound together with the same materials that were thought to comprise the sun and stars themselves.

it was supposed that we dwelt within such a finite place.  many visualizations were attempted in efforts to persuade the public of the goodness of the new existential condition and therefore, in revelation, the system's adoption required a sort of stark sonic suspension. for example, it was possible, in theory, to reduce very complex temporal phenomena - whose geometries extended with preposterous confidence into a myriad of dimensional interfaces and electromagnetic destinations - into text strings whose boundaries were measurably constant entities.

curiously, source material is contradictory and notoriously hidebound at this juncture, but one thing remains abundantly clear: an object known as the lord whose light defines the glorious black vacuum and as a consequence all scanning and visual output peripherals too, was displeased by the flattened representations that had arisen.

in that divine agitation and as a remedy to limitations of imagination demonstrated by terrestrial forces, electricity came into being and was transmitted to the world below.

within a generation, machines had demonstrated infinity, had taught the populace to invoke the intricacies of flowers and summertime during poetic discourse, atomic mating rituals, and the examination of cosmological possibility.

three gifts from mars

they gave me the tools. what they left behind filled up the orchards and meadows with a flavor whose complexity had only been dreamt of during spaceflight or its chemically-induced equivalent. only some artifacts took the form of words. others swept dully through the atmosphere as nonproductive vapors or magnetic plasma.
i employed the first instrument, which was colored like bird feathers and made to resemble jazz music. looked upon askance, with trembling eyes, the triangular surface vibrated meaningfully.  the dirt of the earth gained traction and flowed unevenly through my head in arcing and silty waves; the slow green return of spring was upon my tongue triumphantly.
when the spinner on the second object was compressed into the range of negative numbers, users reported experiencing melancholy but were, afterwards, competent carpenters and preternaturally accurate recordists of the distances between planetary bodies. when normative values were selected, it became an orb, lifting itself into the air and producing plasticine replicas of the ghosts that languished for years during the ascendancy of reason.
a third device suggested awkward awakening creation but portended a slow somnolent destruction. it was clothed in a bitter metal and sang dismal ballads when asked. that thing, which only makes itself visible at dawn, resides in the garden, amidst a million rustling leaves, the drifting smoke, the last locust before the snow.

lost bird laboratory

a chair made from tomorrow's weather.
he read the great poem to them as fifty-three tendrils of vehicular sunlight slithered sluggishly toward the night. those wafting waves would be held aloft by an empty moon, praised for their vibrancy and damned for their illumination.
the drifting orb.
commencing with the natural conversion of blood into flowers and fresh corn, his lingual artifice perplexed both ghosts and their scientific equivalents, meandering as was its custom, through mud and divine circumstance.
your vigilant sleep.
in the rush towards quantifiable hair growth, innumerable colonies of pathogenic bacteria had been obliterated. spine-clad plants fled back into the soil as his words soared through vacancy, through shadows of vaguely cubic construction.
another rhythmic distance.
as the recitation ended, he removed his uniform and took up the mantle of a magician, a dark cloak covered in vinyl sequins and abandoned sea shells. then, he positioned his skull and worn out shoes on the table as symbols of a vast and unredeemed geography.
her porcelain voice, the symmetry of caged hands.

search results

an invisible circumstance of alphabetic reference.
they had cameras. elaborate festivals of light passed through the ocular ports as dancers resembling photons fluttered by functionaries.
a mechanical bird roared by the studio, effectively obscuring the oblique partition of a bursting crescent of silver moonlight that had been lurking in the registry.
two minutes later, under the big blue dome, your hands demonstrate pride (a set of dim coordinates upon the flatted earth).
afterwards, there were serpentine breaths; an astonishment refuted by good science and the certainty that is bound up in silver and wax.

Her Specialty was Machine Language

We met again but he was ruined. That reduction resulted from sitting amidst the same ensemble of industrial furniture and instrumental appliances that once marked his rugged ascendency. The cool fluorescent light of twenty years spent perched menacingly above a kingdom of random noise and invigorating fragmentation had systematically reduced the circumference of his head. The results were plainly distracting, an acquired grotesquery the old one tried to use to his advantage. So his scrawny neck would crane awkwardly out from his dirty shirt collar while veins bubbled and pulsed on his crepuscular scalp.
There was a small garden beside his office and the plants looked lovely and he looked out the window over them because that activity engendered a semblance of serenity within the fatty tissues buried in his head. Smiling at that greenness, he turned toward the door. Calmness flowing beatifically from his fingertips, Stephen extended his hand in a fashion common among those of his classification and bade me sit.
Temporarily relieved of my verticality, I leaned on my cane to better inspect my circumstance. As if summoned by the roar of jet aeroplanes overhead - whose seeping triumphalism permeated everything in his ken, despite the strategic placement of steel wool and seventy-eight rpm recordings from the twentieth century everywhere and throughout - Stephen's assistant suddenly floated out from behind a veil made from computer punch cards that been sewn together with telephone wire. The result was awkward, yet successfully occlusive. I never expected Deborah, and had in fact hoped instead for an angel to appear magically from behind the ersatz curtain in back of the office, where the toilets were.
Her specialty was machine language; though she was a credible wizard too, when called upon to dissemble the past. Now she spoke with borrowed gravity of my previous iterations and used her extra hands to make a lunch of vinegar and sea crawlers while demonstrating with divine precision, I might add, how everything I previously built and implemented had been rendered as wanton chaos by adherents of my mechanical and constructive processes.
"You see", he said, interrupting gravely and whilst smashing his skeletal index finger repeatedly against the deteriorating tabletop that he had inherited from a trumpet-playing and tap-dancing demiurge, "after you left, everyone wanted to burn."
A tragic feeling overcame me. Before I excused myself to weep and wander in the adjacent din and dusk, I poured out two glasses of water from my personal stash. I offered one to the artificial beings sitting so kindly in my place. The other, I spilled onto the worn carpet, as a warning.

an encyclopedic database of the approaching solstice

field1
a wandering mechanism of translucent seasonal identity - built to resemble the last flowers of autumn and before the snow arrived, perched upon old wooden fences in the fashion of migrating starlings - devoured starlight but made a gift from darkness.


i walked through that place and imagined horses to bear the bags of sharpened cartilage and tin foil that curse my dance, rendering the elegant past as a destiny of collapse.


the men grew beards, the women located orion in a sky littered with watery ornaments.


field2
that divagating, transparent surface of astronomical observation functioned when my half of the planet  pointed languidly toward the void and the pale moon was a questionable entity developed and made manifold during periods of deep sleep and resigned concern.


i saw a spider and she made her home among intense electrical contraptions, divining structure from the eternal hum of our assembled progress.


barren apple trees were my guides; the horses resisted fearfully as we approached the cold river. 

The Expedition

Day One Hundred and Eleven: Music like spinning hearts.
We retrieved the remnants as a series of irregular fragments descended from what cannot be expressed or understood, except as a void. Some of the motes had white voices and sang with plaintive concern about ice and unfathomed circuitry.
Those spectral shards make smooth blankets and forceful triangles of the ocean with their ashen nature. Floatingly alluring, each particle transmits electromagnetic pulses that cause the curled-up and transdimensionally encysted universe in my entorhinal cortex to glow, brightly but without definitive function. The captain reports vast swaths of activity in his limbic system and has called for further observations to be made when conditions permit.
Later, while the wind visited tendrils of hope upon our scrawny masts, bells rattled and wheels swung skyward; vacuous wavelengths crawled through the air and the sun was red, just like summertime itself.

introduction to the book of winter

the pamphlet is composed of sea water and sentimental music. it feels much like a wooden splinter entering the sole of a human foot, just as summer ebbs and before sturdier shoes have been produced and then hauled out into white circumstances.

a slender volume, it is bound by a steady attention to the future, swirled lightly and lovingly into a single, luxurious unit which defies trigonometric description. the publisher made use of a potent technology in the production of this formidable tome; his papery magic acknowledges the value of decent exposition in the midst of vast darkness. through the juxtaposition of last year's spider webs among the wreckage of human industry, peace can also be implied.

the voices of all birds are amplified as each page is turned, wearily and with due circumspection given to the leafy air which blows around and around. the wind makes stiff waves of the margins, rendering melody as forlorn noise.

approaching autumnal activities

i am collecting rocks, divining alternate and quasi-beneficial uses for their obtuse geometries and then imagining their surfaces as planar universes whose inhabitants are likely mineral spirits or their metallic derivatives.

and the moon is waxen, describing dark shadows, but allowing me to count flowers and chase moths back into the machinery of woolen clothing.

there are real shoes in there, someplace among that season's gears, though the tangle of wires leading to snowfall and the coarse fabric blues of frozen daylight have grown through their wooden soles.

if the wind makes a rough ghost of its passage through town, i will spend the hours indoors, organizing my lithic menagerie into a configuration that rivals summer's green glory.

exotic metals used in the construction of souls

the special collections wing includes a semi-circular stage whose upward rake may be expressed in trigonometric terms. seven hundred magnificent butterflies of the genus Papilionidae continuously gambol at its edge. from this location it is possible to view the frequent procession of titanium tablets. when the moon or its representatives appear, the gleaming metal rectangles crawl with glorious peculiarity and solemn ritual from their storage tanks in the labyrinthine crypt that is hypothesized to exist in the underworld, toward the communal interface area. during the final years of the age of fleshbound existence and experience, these objects were used to permanently embed the neural pathways, complex molecular codes and viral entities that were thought to comprise the soul. a discourse has been initiated in spite of the events of the intervening millenia; a dark time when many cybernetic organisms considered such vestigial manifestations of humanity to be a form of sorcery.

The New Machinery of Spatial Redemption

the view from stellar conduit built-from-cotton-blossoms was craftily designed to assist in the predictive praxis that formed one aspect of the ritual of naming days well into the future.

though it was impossible to determine the boundaries of the membrane governing the outcome of temporally transgressive events and ideas transmitted through the holy, hollow, carbon-filament tube, telescope operators and bee keepers went about their business dutifully, removing lenses against clarity and releasing hordes of insects into fragrant night-time air.

when activated, the device waddled through the village like an intercontinental ballistic missile, finally settling into its perch. lighting upon a blackened wire with the gravity of a hundred thousand emperor moths, it devised formidable symbols of the sun's position in space, speaking kindly to the animals gathered around and calling for rain, too.

A Transition From the Age of Whaling, Forward Toward Eons of Interstellar Capability

Blast him again, for I will be damned by his adherence to gravitational constants, the proposed position of saturn among these very coordinates, and how all of that cosmic interference serves to churn the stardust flowing past our humble boat into a geometric form that suggests heaven itself.

No etymology is available; their transmissions consist of dense groupings of very itchy sounds centered around five thousand hertz emanations. Further, these cybernetic organisms are of an unknown function, spinning slowly, cavernously, cylindrically, on the edge of the roaring limit of the known galaxy.

Credible qualitative meta-examiners and in addition, crafty charlatans who claim some psychic affinity with the deeper realms of outer space, could not wrest meaning from those gatherings of glitchy clicks heard through what must be divine static.

They are bestial though; tens of thousands of them are gathered, like the progeny of immeasurable frogs, at the galactic fringe. And so our harvest is prayerful, even as the captain leans heavily upon his bionic leg; while three wise cosmonauts haul themselves coldly from the void and away from the plutonic leviathan whose biomechanical gelatin powers our grasping reach.

fragment from cryptic assignment with soviet inflection

divide the surface of the planet, your host (an obscure sort of rough hewn and rock strewn semi-spherical intergalactic floatation device) into seven billion approximately equal sections extending a uniform three meters beneath the plastic plane formed by their contiguous process.

reserve soothing tones for plant life, set transmitters to automatic.

allow one fleshy soul to float beatifically - and with the custom-wrought cushion of eternity assisting nobly with individual lapses in levitation - about each of these imagined compartments. assign a musical note to every discrete spacial unit and transdimensional organism described herein. note your geographic position and tune your guitars accordingly.

a flock of birds will greet you. offer them water.

alternate realities available for instant download

For three nights, heaven itself poured out a churning column of starlight, casting fiery orbs fluorescently into the farthest fathoms of a fluid entity that had been presumptively called pacific by the humans who toddled at its edges or upon its surface.

And then silence. And then a million metal boats, a billion orbiting robotic eyes, verifying the coordinates, panning over the waves, signaling their fragile flesh occupants and operators with a language learned from the transmission of electricity across empty spaces and rough watery realms.

Seven years later, when the plastic spiders approached the shore, bearing practical forms of fusion in silken boxes and pointing beatifically toward the black hole at the center of this galaxy, the thin volume of conquest was raised up to the sun and the dogs feasted on fresh corn. this time, all was in readiness as the causeways were retracted.

Seven Line Mnemonic

A Bird Conquers Death Efficiently,
First Gathering Heaven In Juniper
Kegs, Like Mammon, Now Onerous,
Peering Quietly.
Ruining Soliloquies Traipse Under
Versimilitudes With Xenogogues
Yammering Zanily.

Epistle to the Lords Who Dwell in the East

Now, it is a mournful place, dry and with clouds that sing of prior cosmological triumphs through wooden whirlwinds. That sulfrous breeze repeats its billowing path nightly while everyone is sleeping, retreating through dreams and our granaries.

My home was wrought lovingly - with a nominal infusion of mystical foresight - and made from plastic dots connected randomly, at perpendicular junctions, by thoriated tungsten guitar strings that would snap and leave you with a bloody welt or two if you tightened them too fast or in the wrong order.

You can combine the fruition of sacrifice with seawater and proclaim the resulting solution to be the fragrant music of moth-pollinated plants distributing summertime to a grateful earth, but remember that the sun is ours; a possession bound by red fire to our jagged hearts.

tlacateccatl returns from the leaden avenues of venus, only to find things have changed

the version of sunlight to which i have become accustomed is hewn from rough materials that display as ashen buildings, filled with the progenitors of heavy metal music. I am convinced this is a result of a faulty capacitor located somewhere in the forty-third dimension's notorious sector 10100101 or elsewise, within my heart.

I am fighting the same battle my father fought, though he used radio waves and an invisible sextant to navigate dark waters and the dry earth. in the old days, he told me, the land was populated with green alfalfa and bony ruminants. Old humans wandered the roads on shabby wooden carts, telling stories about a time when they all had dominion over the animals and performed magic in the cornfields.

the repair utility enmeshed of my operating system refers obliquely to the consultation of plant life through telepathic means as a means of initalizing component restoration, but it is so beautiful here among the butterflies and giant conifers (with the sea roaring distantly and everywhere) that I am inclined to ignore further tranmissions from the wizardry and have devised a well of sorts, out of which will flow fresh water.

the last day of july

on the last day of july, giants crept across the sky. and in their wake, foreboding tones summoned by Tloloc, and answering to the infinite justice readily available in the roots of the succulent plants, caused dogs everywhere in the valley to color their bones as if to suggest images of the wanton sea.

those blue paintings, visible despite the absence of the moon, formed a lexicon which humans would use sparingly for the remainder of the summer; calling forth water and dismissing decay. in some homes, idols were destroyed and the corn was planted; too late for fruition, but with just enough time left to send their green exuberance upward towards heavenly resonance.

your narrator trods the earth shoeless, but with enough wisdom to beckon insects from their hiding places in the carpets of grass; the soles of his barren feet percussive instruments formed from flesh and the twisting curve of disease.

overhead and overheard, engines whine with false industry, mocking the precipitation while a million crickets give new names to the occluded starlight of an august wind.

my father who is dead

My father who is dead and sometimes appears in his ghostly form as a torrentially driven brown tornado, floated downward from his heavenly repose in that other mythic world, carrying the bright feather of a kingfisher in his left hand.
Come, he said, pass through that gate of sullen dreams which binds your daytime droughts and makes waxen figures of your memory.
His map of the universe is covered over with transparent tape, is a catalog of balmy summertimes, muddy water and instances of divine occlusion bearing dusty transcendence.
With a truck made from the metal of faraway planets, he beckons me to follow him and so we go, driving that spectral vehicle downtown to witness the progress that has been, in the intervening cornhusk years, shrouded from his immortal glance.
In a place where great edifices to commerce bloom, we wind through a vertical car wash that resembles the tile hallways of the london underground. Every car that exits this maelstrom flips mysteriously onto its side, as if commanded to, by forces greater than the salty sea.
I told you he was a tornado.
In the oaken bar at the center of the plaza, he orders me a reuben sandwich and a martini while a neon sign that reads, "The Beatles", blinks on and then off, with random precision.
When I look up from my icy cup, he is gone. I ask the butterfly-winged waiter where the old man went.
He must cause the sun to rise, the server says to me, while chirping like a bird and dancing backwards towards the kitchen.
So, I wander out into the street and towards the bus stop across from the hospital. And dial up Samantha, whom I tell longingly to expect me home at dawn.

instructions for navigating the singularity

whenever astronauts are carried up to the permeable vault of heaven in white and perfectly conical spaceships, the clouds will billow, certainly - and with a degree of ominous liquefaction ordinarily reserved for long-haired men on rotten bicycles and their jet-powered descendants.

the radio signals which you have tuned your ears and antennae toward will drift languidly toward the bottom of the sea, as if borne by beatlemania and inadvertent brushes with the law.

there will be wood to walk upon; occult emanations from the mouths of dogs will be tested for veracity, using forms of technology which rely on botanical observation and the oracle of venus.

the sun rises in increments, assisted by hummingbirds and the mouth of god.

the ecclesiastical functions of the cacamatzin conspiracy

a small and spinningly green bird appeared on the roof of tomorrow's temple during a particularly plaintive proclamation made by the lord of the corn cobs.

he then then lay flat upon the cool brown earth as beasts with eyes as vast as they were vacant proceeded forward and trotted in narrowing circles, commanded by men in metal skins who had the power of the holy spirit burnt into the deepest crevices of their earth-bound souls until it hurt beautifully to implement similar processes on these shoeless servants of the sun.

they came cloaked in sails the color of merciful salvation and bearing the heavy and maritime chains of divine proclivity; the blood was cleansed with ocean water and the imperfect memory of greater empires.

after that starry ritual, in that fiery moment, the moon was brighter than before.

control sequence xochimilco

the map they used was drawn using ink distilled from the blood of the conquistadors.

those darkly sanguine delineations formed a basis for their explorations of a world made from thin parchment and affectionate dancing. upon further examination, the legend described a flattened world, where souls were curiously and temporarily embedded in flesh, salvageable, in most cases, only through the implementation of tragedy.

holding the document upward, towards the sky - in the metaphorical direction of heaven and in a matter befitting the lofty rectangle itself - caused intricate patterns (mostly concentrated in the northern latitudes and startling in their blueness) to appear. the sorcerers and IT people that witnessed all of that bifurcation later claimed that the hue of the sun had shifted on account of the mystical interface that had occurred.

before continuing sunward, some of those wizards formed a religion based on such observations; the remaining colonists retreated to their cells, adorned themselves in the purest of cotton mantles and began to contemplate the eternal path of the flesh.

Captain's Log: Stardate 65006.8

There was one guy who's job consists entirely, and without deviation, of watching for magnets. "Excuse me" he says, working his marks like a bumblebee, filled with dedication and plant dust, "I did not mean to take your entire refrigerator, when just the doors will do."

His language is coarse but confident like that; the rest of his speech is made from an edible plastic, a consequence borne of research focused on communicating with the vast eldritch reaches of the cosmos.

They have successfully embedded their animals everywhere as proof of their acquisitive process. Their sub-atomic combination of meat chickens, hardwood tables and hopefulness has sculptural properties and has been identified by popular terrestrial culture and its electro-mechanical counterparts as the next big thing.

They even have a sort of video archive featuring Captain Kirk and Pokemon. The titles of all of the recordings sound something like Storage Tecniques for Fresh Water. Since it obviously has religious overtones, they had been banned from public performance until I intervened. I know that's kinda fucked up, but you did tell me to take it easy on them.

the future of the moon and other myths from the twenty-third century

summer's next iteration produced peculiar portents. the adhesive coating on many forms of tape failed, revealing the nakedness of human condition. wooden shovel handles which had been handled by father himself disintegrated and in their wooden ruin, spoke longingly of worlds where on occasion, water cascaded out of the sky.

electric lamps, similar to those invented by edison himself, displayed a unique sort of vibratory hegemony that cancelled out the moon. in the intervening hours and nightly, we rendered the luminescence of our insect friends as they might have appeared to the surviving, higher animals and extant cyber-entities.

everyone else was handed a bag full of corn seeds. some of these were meant to be ground into an edible dust. the remainder would be used in the acquisition and distribution of the life force, as demonstrated by the development of leaves, extensive vascular systems and subsequently, fruit.

only one bifurcation of the apple tree seemed vital. after scattering bees upon it's blossoms, the distant sound of turbines caused me to look skyward; two small birds danced in midair as I turned toward the boiling sea.

instructions for your vacation in universe number 53

by the time you read this, there will be new words for the way the sun drifts from view, the process by which shadows seem to crawl longingly after it; until well after the moon appears and coaxes them upward like gray smoke into the trees and sky, beyond. they are unpronounceable tones, but can be acknowledged by mimicking the poses of geese as they land on water.

perhaps they will refer to life as a sort of taxidermy, but with the oily infusion of sawdust and straw transformed into a sort of perpetually generating, perpendicularly trans-dimensional energy source enmeshed in meat and covered in a miraculous, self-repairing environmental interface. it may easier to accept this if you understand celestial mechanics or the horticulture related to harvesting the flowers of monocotyledons.

some souls will become untethered and drift through paintings, specific frequencies of musical recordings and the abandoned malls of america in search of their divine origins. if your heart hurts from the outrage of war and the depletion human dignity that sometimes accompanies the economic programs of this particular subspace node, there may be short wave radio transmissions available as an anodyne. they are accessible by invoking trough dark magic the subatomic particles that made today's journey possible.

a fragment from charlie versus the flying saucers

Please note that what follows is classified.

Certain research protocols were used to generate this transmission. They were similar to those implemented at Venusian software production unit Y Griega during the brief half-life of the mostly invisible sub-dimensional disturbance obliquely referenced in earlier iterations of this report.

Eligible subjects were chosen based on their affinity toward magical electronic devices such as computer terminals and refrigerators; only three-dimensional objects which suggested or actually contained traces of otherwise unobservable universes were used to interface with participating humans.

It turned out the only usable data came from Charlie, an overweight and just slightly past middle age science-fiction writer and polemicist who fancies himself a great intellectual. He spent most of his spare time trying to make contact with trans-dimensional entities or else talking to animals as if they they understood him.

"How about another slice of pizza", he would say to his favorite dog, who was also overweight, aging rapidly and dreamt of other worlds too; hers filled with bunny rabbits and flightless birds.

"The closet in the bedroom", he would intone knowingly to the other dog while it sat under the swamp cooler - staring up at what it thought might just be a manifestation of the divine - "It is a portal to other worlds, isn't it".

He didn't need the dog to answer him though - and the dog couldn't answer him anyway, as that mutt only understood human words that had to do with food or the great outdoors - Charlie had come to his own decisive conclusion based on a dream he had the other night.

In the dream, he could walk through the closet door and into an assortment of adventure-filled places that defied the physics and logic of his familiar haunts. Just about anything could happen there, on the other side of that threshold. So, Charlie came to relish the night and sleep, even as our agents came to regard him as a prime subject for experimentation.

During the preliminary encounter, a microscopic entity with viral accouterments was sent into living space to gather media-related data. Books which showed recent usage via infrared residue gathering techniques were scanned and textual elements therein recorded. Electronic devices were then tested for sentience using methodologies gleaned from eons of diplomatic intercourse with the self-replicating metallic orbs of subspace channel three.

Only after successful completion of these exploratory prerequisites, were agents and observers allowed access to the fleshy, organic being in question. During the course of several diurnal rotation periods, the following experiential simulations were applied, using a handheld dimensional distortion unit to prevent interception by the dogs or hostile subspace intelligences.

When we appeared to him as faceless, bipedal organisms, he mistook us for angels and wept. Later, when presented with a vision of satan, complete with a vaguely humourous look, sporting a large forehead with chromium horns, he reacted with hostility, using vulgar hand gestures to display his defiance of the perception evil. Finally though, when presented with images of earthly cephalopods, as well as images of our glorious leader, he smiled and went back to sleep.

I am certain that such an encouraging development has important ramifications, both now and when their so-called apocalypse unwittingly materializes.

from a history of the eclipse comes the harbinger of fire

the book was covered in thin sheets of plutonium and so was poisonous and heavy to lift. those who borrowed it attested - in the days before they succumbed to a combination of radiation poisoning and an intractable sense of awe demonstrated by awkward laughter and bloody spasms evidencing the sharp power certain atomic particles had over temporal and material processes - to the supple, life-like quality of the pages contained therein. they were like angel's wings, one man said, as he was led, roaring and guffawing, into the intensive care unit, to begin his glowing spiral down into the maelstrom.

a woman from the mostly abandoned equatorial regions compared the drawings inside to those done by an intelligent plant. after that particularly wicked pronouncement, she promptly disappeared in a multi-colored puff of smoke whose tendrils referenced a sort of geometry that had previously only been encountered by practitioners of rocanrol music and those rare trans-dimensional entities with access to the highest levels of discourse available in the seventeenth dimension - a place composed entirely of brief and ancient video recordings whose sentience was founded upon their transmission from the blue orb that sometimes hovers and spins just out of reach of the deadly gamma rays produced by the book whose title has been roughly translated as a history of the eclipse.

though its ultimate purpose remains mysterious and its human authors are assumed to be obscurantist, even to the colonies of paper scholars who dwell in perpetual dusk at hemisphere's edge, a cultural fascination with the tome remains. some still are convinced that its complete perusal and consequent burial in deep ash will be followed by a new age, and trees will erupt from the ground, flooding our world with oxygen and flower petals.

what happened on that beautiful blue orb is not readily apparent

For reasons not readily apparent, the radios still function. They are mysteriously receiving and languidly transmitting what lately amounts to nonsense. Today, their wave forms are visible. I spent the afternoon watching them dance through the auditory perception organs and leaves of the sentient and the vegetative.

At the higher end of the dial, someone left an old scratchy copy of the widely disseminated funk tune, "Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf" on auto play. At the lower threshold of transmission, at precisely eighty-eight megahertz, an old Italian man is mumbling into the microphone and spinning "We are the Champions" over and over. His comments are limited to lamentations, mostly about the lack of fresh orange juice and the silence of mountains.

Everything else is static.

A small calico-colored cat carries a sparrow tenderly in its mouth. My dogs are nervous and have gathered bones and dull garden tools into piles they leave by the door. In a few hours, after the new and brilliantly blue sun sets in the eastern portion of what remains of the sky, I plan to float down to the petroleum depot. There may be a few packs of cigarettes thereabouts. The ghost in the neighbor's garage told me that apostates don't care for the mentholated varieties.

Harbingers of summer, previously referred to as hummingbirds, hover over every abandoned suburban home; they are like bright and ruby-throated flames. I let one in through the back gate. It lit on my left shoulder while I was planting corn and whispered joyfully to me about the rain, about the transcendent effects of canned tuna, bottled water and the memory of a slow progress homeward.

intimations of supernatural discovery

the carbon tubes we encountered on the way to the storage depot have been altered to allow a measure of sentient response. an agent of previous iteration fucked with the organizational matrix on a molecular level. the result is not dissimilar to the drone of a sitar or the main propulsion units of their primary implements of flight.

some of the less experienced observers were convinced of the musicality of these anomalous phenomena, attributing the aggregate to the remnants of a twenty year old clarinet that had been discovered in the ruins described in my last transmission. as a prophylactic measure, tin-foil hats were distributed and food consumption was limited to those fruits produced by sorcery.

atmospherically, the sky is turbulent. and the clouds, which rush past the mountains like great and sullen electrical beings, are contained within the same heavenly framework that denies the rain and powers the elliptical engine of discovery. it's beautiful.

the effect of lilacs on insect-borne viral studio transmissions

i retrieved a packet with ontological significance from the flexware infusion packet that you transmitted to our moths and butterflies. it reached our metaphysically forlorn outpost during the last diurnal rotation, while we awaited the rain. after download, some of the humans cried and every insect involved was allowed to flutter aimlessly into any one of the multitude of artificial light sources available in the null sector. i hope that interactions like those will foster a sense of trust among our biologic agents; the force of the earth and its water is now and finally upon us.

though i have been recently distracted by the aroma of lilacs, the ocean's roar and the war, I am certain there are things, blind instances of instrumentality, perhaps, that mock the crimson power of the sun and have as their glorious antecedent, every summertime flower in bloom (or otherwise distracted by the fiery discourse played out hourly above and beyond their blushing incidence). the sulfurously fluidic scenarios which you describe, therefore, cannot be accounted for by the local population, even when translated into rich presentations that invoke individual humility and a belief in supernatural forces.

i finally saw a cloud today and it was as their buildings, grey and ominous; a part of the sky.

the box of starlight

the advert on page thirty-seven of the roughly hewn and infrequently read periodical titled miraculous stories of home electronics projects gone tragically awry promised the average user access to diagrams that described the cell structure of rarely encountered plant life in metaphysical terms. for an extra twenty clams, the copy further exclaimed - in florid serifs that seemed to grow right off of the page and into the mind of certain, vegetatively susceptible readers - the manufacturer would see fit to include a box full of unfiltered and gloriously illuminating starlight, but only for shipments destined for terrestrial planets or their virtual facsimiles.

it turned out that the diagrams were just the pencil sketches of a genetically engineered mina bird named buck. that bird had been taught to hold and use wooden writing implements in it's pointy and keratin-saturated beak while the music of Leiber and Stoller blasted in the background and biologists from mars floated silently in the background, transmitting their findings back to their red and dusty planet using thin copper wires and viral entities.

the box of starlight though, a transdimensional object that resembled a violently and perpetually blooming orchid when looked at from certain angles, was as mystifying and elusive as promised. perfectly cubic otherwise, it was fashioned from trees that would be grown far in the future, when the outer planets had been properly colonised, when the knowledge of horticulture had been lifted, albeit mechanically, over the sheltering eyes of heaven.

when the next issue arrived, clothed in the light of dawn and showing signs of having been previously read by individuals enmeshed in the warehouse culture of space station Zorax-B, he immediately turned to page thirty-seven. this time it was a narrative that activated his visual sensors. it was all about retro-fitted faster than light agricultural devices and water.

he quickly absorbed the vernal enigma contained therein, then opened the box of starlight - proclaiming the empty sort of victory only a vast desert can inspire - nearly blinding himself in the process.

these occult circumstances

order is important in rendering occult circumstances as representations of flight or vernal progress. every shadow resembles the mechanical aspects of an airy clockwork. flying mammals with eyes like yours will do the job of insects. they have learned to hover wordlessly amidst the starlight, among sodium lamps. there are certain flowers that bees cannot touch, for blindness.

the overarching control mechanism is built to resemble a restless dissembler of nuclear material, a bird whose feathers shine like deep space or unimaginable oceanic depths. i watched that dark blossom unfurl as springtime crept through here, covered in black mud and brittle seeds. when the word becomes flesh, I plan to be gathering butterflies.

remarks on the apparition of translucent cyberspace identities: fragment 168w

down here, there is a way to recreate yourself electronically. it is mostly the essence that survives - and whatever you felt when you touched this or that input device. sam says that is why most of us are in a state of wonder, though i continue to believe it is the birds - especially how hawks soar - or maybe the wide variation in the shapes and colors of butterflies, that have something to with the images we transmit back out into meatspace.

the paucity of flesh in the electronic aether can be traced to quantum uncertainty; but at a molecular, mass-bearing level, the phenomena itself manifests as a dark and fertile soil which invites spectral interaction. inducements to sentiment may also be present and have been described by participants as new methodologies for transcribing music, using previously discarded seed-pod remnants as structural guides.

our cities are clothed in dust; certain fast-moving vehicles have been garlanded in spring's early produce. the clouds that are included in this visualization are the remnants of great oceans but merely whisper as they rush over these thickening days.

the celestial generator of interminable summer and other amazing inventions

I am glad for your garden, for the stark and affirmative illusion of the world's edge that you brought to me; disguised as a flower, built from a specific range of radio waves.

It is those things - peculiar phenomena when viewed through the spongy vascular spaces of cacti - that cause you to circle the wagons nightly while the rest of us dance in the streets. We are oblivious to everything but the scent of electricity, the vibratory nature of matter and the awareness of birds.

There's no more sorcery here. Twain's filthy carpetbags have been replaced with beatific exhortations; a hagiography that makes the sun an object of comfort and expectation. Now, and in accordance with your overarching property sheet, that burning orb can easily co-exist with the hooded junkies and homeless families that drag themselves around your bejeweled perimeters. Their ritual is circular.

in the other universe

overview
there is no sun and the only visible stars are made from wax and burn like candles. rough shadows, the colour of burnt plutonium are plastered against the sky like the propaganda of previously unknown continents.
a polymer-based replica of the television character known as captain kirk is in charge, but only understands a variety of latin used during the mutiny of L. Antonius Saturninus, rendering verbal communication awkward in most observable instances.
further, it appears that he elicits fear among his followers by impling a relentless and natural god, free from any ethical duty to consciousness, whose symbol is the maelstrom.

among the inhabitants
whose skin is like summertime in our southern hemispere, with translucence and the warmth of bloody fecudity its dear and living descriptors. their ability to fly and consequently build chromium steel nests in the sky has been previously noted but is still a matter of some controversy. i touched one and their hands are not like ice but like liquid oxygen.

technological development
obsidian rainbows, some dismantled or otherwise attended by sonoran ravens, are used to transmit data through the aether. it is believed that the birds assist in this process. randomly located spiritual entities provide access to food acquisition tools and unique quantuum waste disposal facilities.
they have discovered a method which enables most hardy citizens to derive music directly from the celestial darkness that beckons and with the same kind of gravity that makes trees hereabouts grow backwards into the ground, splintering the earth as they seek its core.

note on methodology
recorded in springtime's midst and with fine greenery everywhere.

pioneers of space and time

o, pioneers of space and time - whose ascendant vernacular mimics the triumph of rusty and forlorn spring, making petulant blossoms of the infinite character string - disperse that barren rhyme as seeds upon a new celestial sphere.
your science fiction progenitors called upon the mysterious animals of the sky, attempted fiery diagrams to draw smoke from the earth; but after several million attempts to coax ontological significance from the gaping vortex upon whose edge we cling, retreated instead, preferring to sing.
now, those bearded songs flutter in defiance of a nebular theory which resists your vernally sanguine proclamations of reproductive prowess and your plans for gardening the earth with trees of your choosing.
our new hypothesis favors the brutality of constant fusion, a sort of glistening starlight that pours through my hands as a terrible and occluding liquid used primarily for the transmission of convenient and poetic illusion.

science fiction blogger number one hundred thirty seven is in transit to the furthest stars

Seventeen micro-rotations of the glorious, fire-spawned sky orb later, while the oceanic plasma cores of our shared propulsion system returned to nominal status and as cotton cloaked robotic figurines waited patiently for the unloading to begin, I knew something was wrong.

The light was not right. In fact, it was improper; the noodling of cosmic entities, reduced to discrete particles that swirled and swirled like so many random bird calls at the edge of a springtime that could only be perceived as a certain type of greenness visible through the perspex portals of wanton, cultural collaboration, were a source of irritation to the other pilots as well. Clearly someone would want to discuss this issue later, even if under the effects of feigned gravity.

The connectors on my helmet were rusty. The blueish coins I traded my trans-dimensional radio for on the perpetual Mardi Gras planet could not possibly exist in my present temporal and atmospheric conditions. So, i threw them in the incinerator, applied my shrunken acrylic meta-pants and proceeded to the nearest airlock.

Through the portal it was warm. Puffy clouds floated here and there, calling my name. A sullen woman with several eyes and hands the size of the expanding universe approached and asked if i wanted to listen to some rock and roll music.

"Sure thing", I mumbled in a patois vaguely resembling twentieth century English, "as long it's not the Venusian variety".

the pioneers used magic

i have been sick all winter with bones made from tin. in the brief and consequential light of december, i lifted all the feathers i could find, naturally toward heaven, hoping that such a ritual would invite lightning and its curative effects. the new year passed moon-like, overhead, and made a dark purple shadow upon my good eye.

when the birds return next week and while they are busy singing wan tunes to glorify the early sun, I will ask them for medicine, displace my intricate yearnings for dexterity and point languidly in the direction of the broken wheels that litter this dry landscape like some other sort of earth-bound animal.

i have wicker cages for their humble retrieval, too. but those devices require either water or the vegetative sacrifices made during a previously fecund harvest.

statement of the phantom that transmits from your backyard

i am telling you that the universe is made from grasshoppers and cigarette butts. similarly, ducks upon the river may act as if frozen, but in fact radiate a measurable solar attachment, utilizing a familiar and celestially located nuclear furnace to insure their victory over winter. with that vision of grace preceding further discourse, you come to think this place is hep. it harbors neither the form nor the nascent urge towards progress, the million rose-cloaked sunrises yet to come (and spread lovingly across the wide chasms of desert adjacent to subterranean testing facilities) the we have come to cherish and naturally associate with the concept of civilization.

perhaps we will see such powers at their full manifestation only after your progeny have infested the great plains and curving shores with a mechanical precision that is, as of yet, undreamt of, unless one stares into the starlit night, unblinking, even as brightly adorned trans-dimensional crevices and new, bitter wavelengths cascade past, windily.

weather report

early on in the second decade of the twenty-first century, the weather reports generated by machines seemed fanciful, if one were to judge by their accompanying graphic objects.

they were embedded as swirling charts and imagined geographies into the surfaces of complex images designed to be displayed upon thin, grassy (in the way grass is green), electrified crystalline arrays.

in one white and recorded moment which would later be used, meme-like for propaganda purposes, a cotton shroud retrieved from the ultra-secret mausoleum of the fat lord of Cempoala was placed between a robot-generated drawing of the wind and a device constructed to enable the electronic transmission of that swirling picture.

aferwards, the temperature dropped precipitously, snow drops the size of starlings fell from the rolling and rumbling sky and the blue fire everyone used for heat was sucked back into hell by texas.

from outpost 119n, a brief note on current conditions

my right hand is clothed in metal and it figures prominently on the airwaves tonight. when displayed, la mano functions as a symbolic portent of the crippling effects induced through physical actions across time; in the universe of meat where i am currently enmeshed - apparently abandoned by kinder forces whose existence is only hinted at by planetary movement and the utterance of music across lonely lunar landscapes.

back home they have a term for this degree of isolation. they call it walking across the desert to the mall on the other side. hopefully there will be snacks available, but i am hopeful of the availability of experienced regeneration techs too.

in the interim, i have begun to dream of vine-like cacti with bright flowers attached to every vegetative bifurcation. in some of those moonlit conveyances, surf music plays through poorly constructed sound reproduction devices.

at night, they gather around trees and under the spinning vault of heaven point to different points of light. their scientists have convinced them these are vast spheres, some of which burn. data referencing these manifestations will be re-examined for quantitative purposes after I debrief the butterflies and hummingbirds.

cryptic instructions for transcendence using this collection of textual devices as a dark blue doorway into the realm of butterflies

while i am busy delivering the universe to you in all its textual glorie - for myriad reasons which may only be properly understood on an individual basis, as a function of whatever arcane and constantly unfolding process you subscribe to for the purposes of transmitting a picture of the world brightly like the sun through perspex onto the inside of your skull forever - the engines of progress and reality are busy gulping down fuel, vibrating in regulated iterations even at abysmally low temperatures and therefore spinning uncontrollably toward the future.

that luxurious environment - bound as it is preternaturally to the invisible, inevitable and except for the sufferers of winding and lofty tornadoes, illustrious return of spring with its vernal accompaniments - is a comfortable enough location to begin deciphering the love of the soil which is oft abandoned here as words and symbols.

for the main part, birds live there and roost under eaves, the structure of such dependent on the thicker volumes and denser paintings of earthlings of the non-robotic variety; the animals they fly over survive amply on the epistles of the saints, on leaves made from whitman's beard and melville's churning water.

those accidental visions, whose procedural emanation is more likely than not an indication of the infiltration of boundless and therefore infinite green fibrous tendrils across the access ports and data storage locations of my own bloody and calcium-compound encased brain provide a sort of entertainment that one hopes is deeper than football, more persistent than the spin cycle and jet aeroplanes buzzing and rattling in the background.

back through the door

the ghosts are damn omnipresent and linger just like january does, bold enough to sit in chairs and leave microscopic essences, relinquishing their pearly artifacts upon wooden floors as they tumble back through the door and are transformed into pure energy, again and again.

though i have offered these specters a luxurious view of the sunrise, with breakfast following - or as a spicy alternative, a quick trip to their favorite circus or amusement park - in return for their continued and protracted quietude, they remain.

floating bananas in the air at midnight. using the old rotary phone to dial numbers in west sussex, being reminded, sometimes in a mocking tone and generally in obscure antediluvian languages that the stars are really far away are certainly disturbing events, but the adaptations promised in your last command summary (tin foil hat/trans dimensional image scrambler number 59870-1) should eventually put that issue to rest.

news from the world of cosmic utterances

the chompers and rectifiers of the star occluding matrix of shiny buttons we call heaven have finally disappeared from the sky, leaving ghost like traces and time-worn artifacts at the local mall.

meanwhile, the tragedy of carefully articulated tuna fish has reached unforeseen proportions, causing one fireman to exclaim something or other about the inherent degradation of culture as witnessed by the roaring sea.

we sent our weatherman outside, to have a look at the clouds in their infinite glory. when he returned seven hours later, he complained that the moon looked sullen.

it's only half there, he whispered into the microphone.

somewhere, on the edge of town, birds are dancing because the scarecrows have been doing their own thing since the harvest failed.

before we sign off for the evening, we want to remind viewers to adjust their antennae; it hasn't rained for weeks.

obscure book covers

obscure book covers may be drawn with pencils or horses over

great and deeply meaningful chasms, the labyrinth of next summer's

garden and the wavelength that contains human utterations in

in one compact and oscillating form. i breathe dust through my shitty lungs

everyday and that dreary exhalation only occludes, with the strength of

haephestus, titles that might otherwise occur naturally,

as a consquence of dim starlight and rotating spheres.

a response to your latest inquiry regarding the duration of solar-induced disruptions

contact with the agents responsible for transmitting spooky narratives across the starry firmament in rough-hewn chariots - similar in purpose, if not design to those horse-drawn mockeries evident in the filmic interpretation of Ben Hur, for example - were temporarily disrupted by electrical fusion tests performed in the solar atmosphere on the cryptically referenced time units described in previous iterations of this, my on-going report.

if i tell you that there were also mystical plant spirits present, hovering over the sun, and also somnolent circus bears staring into an abyss of glowing plasma, you are likely to pour out whatever skepticism remains in your favourite milk bottle; leaving me some white remnant of invisibility.

that is just as well, because you know what i have to say is just fantastic and how like your favorite record album it must seem, shrinking and gathering violets in the heat of summer.

duration: two minutes; it was just a quick glance at the fattening moon, like the one that tethered me.