beetle. French braids in the mouth. Gold
-fish flushed, display your inward telegram.
This is a pop-up magazine, a way of
schooling or interferring with textbooks,
those that are unearthed, incarnations with
-out any new roots. This winter, my outer
-shape is like an Arctic Cathedral; a mental
catalyst, calloused by blister-rubbing words,
words & more words, like birds & birds,
like volcanoes in Japan. Our mouths.
Seething heretofore perfectionism, like wine,
my skull outlasting your skull, delivering
lectures to myself in a cold bedroom at
midnight with my hands clasped tightly.
I think, I am not a little boy. I am layered in
routine, thinking of beta carotene or old
Beta machines. The union of science is
problematic, as if caucasians are nothing
more than bleached Africans. What equals
yummy? swatted insects, unlucky fellows,
your favorite performance, prolonging.
Contrarywise, I like to know that people
are gleaming amongst Lord Byron
or being graffitied into the study of hope
& triumph. I want to get yanked up voluntarily
like sprouted weeds, show what roots still
remain, show what I am made of, the way
one has their hair pressed into shape with
netting. Momentum is always brimming, is not
a spot-light hog like the appearance of boiling,
but is like the uninterrupted listening of
parental affection guided by the voices of
the Victorian era. As fit as a fiddle, brittle.
What's a tree but a shower curtain, verbal
S-A-T. I sit. I now know my baitonik place
amongst what human speech consists of: SOUND,
like how Visual Sense is created from listening
to radios. Mental martial-arts.
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