Jun
continuous partial attention
They’re seeding the clouds with spindly spider webs meant to engineer the weather, the filaments falling down upon amber waves of ConAgra corn and worming their ways out of fissures in our flesh as inorganic fibers in unnatural shades of red and blue. Don’t pull on that piece of lint because it might be connected to your nervous system. In Vietnam they seeded clouds with silver iodide to extend monsoon season for more effective warfare, why not coat them now in veils of noxious film that give rise to delusional parasitosis, brain fog, stiff joints.
A sinkhole opened up in Guatamala recently and devoured entire city blocks. To see even a picture of this gaping maw of the earth I feel myself falling headlong into it, and instead of coming out the other side I am caught in a subterranean cavity albino amphibians of pre-history brushing against my legs, writhing creatures that metabolize sulpher and have never seen the sun. The sun which NASA has said is rising from a deep slumber, with a burgeoning solar maximum that might fry our twitters our facebooks our continuous partial attention. My eyes become accustomed to the phosphorescent glow of the slime mold and Dick Cheney’s menacing grin comes into focus. He lives down here now, with his kind. He still loves the thrill of the chase, his predilection for human hunting has been transformed to a hunger for eyeless crab-like creatures. He licks his lips. I scream. Dick scuttles away into the dark recesses, sensitive to soundwaves which move through the cavern.
I have the intuition that everything would be fine if all the world’s leaders could just, for a moment, see the earth from the vacuum of space, experience such a return to the womb in orbit, float untethered by terrestrial gravity, maybe they would just stop putting the screws to us so hard.
The Scientologists have recorded their doctrine on titanium cylinders and buried them deep beneath California’s desert. Humans and our decadent beauty, our staggering accumulation of ephemera, minutia, syllabi solutions cures cultivations designs Art with a capital A all the arts with little a’s These will ALL be gone… Once we have dreamed our eradication into being by mistaking these envelopes of flesh for I capital I’s once we have wiped ourselves clean from this Earth those that come afterl ask themselves “but what of those who came before us,” and they will find only Suri Cruise’s birth records.
This all seems familiar like the aura of a grand mal seizure visual artifacts, solar storms & ash plumes, ictal orgasms of the earth that shake tsunamis loose. There is a global weirdening increased occurrences of sleep paralysis. Flouride in your drinking water is petrifying your third eye so make sure you use a Brita filter if you want a full on awakening.
America’s auto-immune system is ravaging itself, its circulatory mechanism has prolapsed, slick black blood coats all of our hands and we use it to finger-paint hieroglyphs from an orthogonal present where (this never happened), the symbols radiating across to us as waves of mortification. I can make out a few prescriptions, like turn around inside yourself and shake hands with the obsidian void, and use your non-dominant hand to high-five the darkness. If it were a letter from the future the post-script would read: Yours In Solidarity Against the New World Order
