'coins'

in the course of an occupation whose purpose is the transportation of patrons from one private hell to the next, it would seem that a desire would exist within the employee during every journey for the passenger to halt all proceedings midway to say: ‘no further. i wish to remain here.’

fragment no. 1

'sometimes you catch a fleeting glimpse at a perspective that is wholly not yours. it's ephemeral and passes, but in that moment you see the world maybe (but you hope not) as it really is, and not something filtered through your own personal perspective which who knows might have some kind of evolutionary and insulary and inbuilt thing to it that shields you from the Truth of the world because maybe within that Truth you'll discover that your discordant-with-the-world perspectives have elevated you from the base that you really reside upon. and then how do you go on from that, even when it goes away and you're back to your version of normal and can then freely think again that you are a part of something, and not just socially predacious and bad and sorrowful and totally like cut-off from everything. that there is no gulf between what you convey and how it's perceived. that maybe everyone gets struck by the seemingly other-worldly thing that grasps you with both hands on your face's cheeks to say like 'snap out of it for a second!'. and that this alienating and deconstructive thing that seems to separate you from other people is exactly what unites you.'

'-esce-'

the best part of living is just after the waterall, floating up above the animals and hovering befogged for a few moments to watch them in their splendor and quotidian exercises that make them swell with the beauty of everyday life. 'banal' is not a bad word. after this little, slightly cunctative, semi-voyeuristic interval, and then rising integrally through tropo-/strato-/meso-/iono- + into the vacuum as chemistry bleeds out and pushes past the moon and blurs and striates and flattens to the event horizon; sucked through as dripdripdrip normalcy returns and i'm back in my bed lying and staring at the ceiling at the pieces of g-i-t-d stickers that came in a huge sheet but were cut and stuck to the ceiling to look out like stars.

'ethearic'

OK, new dream: we're in a room whose walls are all sterile white, maybe 8' x 18'. you're in the upper left corner of the room and you're wearing a full-length, white lab coat over a black doctor-ish dress and black mini-heeled shoes. you have on black, thick-framed bifocals and are standing in front of a computer that is on a raised table-like desk. your line of sight is || to one of the 8' walls. by your feet is a ~2' x 2' door, which is a simple screen door framed by unfinished wood. you look radiant in your sterility. i am standing to your right in plain clothes w/ work gloves on and my hands on my hips just waiting whatever for. then small animals of all manner pour and slide into the room and i begin wrangling them individually. as i capture each one, i bring it over to you. i know i've seen these animals before and even know their names but as i bring each one to you i describe it to you like we've just discovered it for all the world and you diligently enter this information into your computer and when you're finished i bend down to the door by your knees and open the door to release the animal out through it. this last action makes me pass by you very closely. i eventually get the animals caught/described/released, save one. this is a rattlesnake which i have been avoiding and which has been laying in wait at the foot of the made-up hospital bed that lies beyond the computer you gaze at, against one of the 18' walls. i know it is a rattlesnake and i know it is poisonous, which is why i've avoided it, and i know that if i somehow pick it up and bring it to you i will forget everything i know about it and will have to describe it to you, and through this the world, as it is something new. i am reticent then deliberate in my corralling, cautious against poisoning. this whole time you've said nothing at all aloud yet we've been exceptional in our work. i'm scared to grab the animal and you stand there with infinite patience and wisdom and your face. pulchritude. i parry and the lunge at the snake and grab it cleanly by its neck but it has somehow bitten me. i fall backwards and roll on my back, rictusized and feeling my blood moving as you drop everything and cry and come at me and youre talking to me but youre drowned out by my ringing ears. i cant hear anything but understand you perfectly. the snake is nowhere now. come to think of it, i dont think anything ive said aloud to you this whole time was spoken, either. you heard it anyway. the ceiling transposes itself from up above to the side wall. youre kneeling at my right and your smile is effusive and i burst through the tympanum and our faces touch and hands meld and i should wake up and i do

'ghosts'

the flying fish swims on its side of the plane, in all directions at any time—it moves irrespective to any laws or rules. considering one straight and level tract of distance, it enters at any point in time or space. it could be said that you'd find the fish there in that tract no matter when you looked. at some point in its travels, at the so-called 'start' of this tract, it decides to do what gives it its name. bursting through the plane it begins its ballistic trajectory, with all of the physics that entails. during its flight, it sees the world—trees, sky, grass, everything. at some point during this short-lived voyage into a world it doesn't belong, or at many points, perhaps, it looks down to view its home where its eternal voyages took place and sees itself looking back. often, as it is, this occurs just as the world is exerting its final presence on the fish, and as the fish is catching one last glimpse of itself from both sides, it is—once and for all—pushed back across the void. but these are the best moments of our lives.

untitled

wander my deserts
in search of a home
that does not exist
unknown yet
full of my love

but: differences
you are unaware
and you are not chosen

please keep walking

untitled

a burden's weight
is only measured
by the strength
of its
carrier

'the bridge'

construction of the bridge has been progressing steadily. while in ordinary circumstances such a proclamation perhaps creates decent feelings or at least some degree of satisfied indifference, the current situation in fact produces two problems: firstly construction was not commissioned or permitted by the government and secondly, though environments of the first problem are often enough reason to nullify this second problem, the people of the soon-to-be-adjoined two lands do not want it. the first problem is not uncommon; architecture has long been applying itself to the landscape without sanction. there is a peculiarity, though, that arises from the rest: on every level the mere idea of constructing such an apparatus would appear beneficial. extrinsically, though, the people have always loved their water; for leisure, for business, or for travel, the tiny straight and the romantic feelings involved in the journey across it have seemed to elucidate a nostalgic proxy that appears to shorten its lateral distance in the minds of the people. the unfettered straight allowed for ease of passage, and a kinship between the swimmers of both sides floated towards the middle of the waters.

nevertheless, construction continues to progress steadily. beneath this proclamation is the curious fact that the workers, both groups starting at one land and building inwards towards those middle waters, are working without blueprints or the ability to contact the other group. they labor the day and sometimes late into the night, with a steely intensity that is indescribable. with no plans or communication, however, each side is left to guess the exact direction of the other, this proving exceedingly difficult during the morning fogged hours and the dusky late afternoon. thus, every late-morning it comes to the workers that they have labored their nights in askew directions. the hoped-for connection is increasingly obscuring and distancing, but the will and purpose of this unsanctioned, unwanted construction continues anew every foggy morning, furthering the distance between these lands and the people, who look out over the water—now crowded with construction—longingly.
at one time, these separate lands were one; no longer. their affections and affinities form an invisible tether of infinite length, holding them at a distance rivaled only by that to which they are now separated from the time they were one.

at once, i hear an anachronous whistle, meaning it is time for dinner, and i must go.