In the future we’ll name our children for colors and other things we used to know before everything greyed to ash.
We’ll throw invisible spears at visible gods asking why nothing was done to stop the burning of sea turtles back when all our gods were idols and our cars were filled with gods.
In the future tomorrow we’ll spend decades crafting time catapults to hurl unclaimed corpses back to good old days, because if we want anything in the now it’s the old good.
Fuck it. Let me stop trying. Stop sickle-mining underwater when this word shit begs for flame.
I’ve glued my chairs to the ceiling and glued bodies to the chairs and I’m Lord of the Flies sharp-stick pointing and screaming, “Pinata!”
Sour. I’m not sleeping anymore. Experiment unplanned. Efforts were made to exit awake, the assumption of a horizontal position, generous time spent on the tuck-in, a salutation to invading spirits that have their own ideas about chairs and glue. This, prior to ceiling stares with no reward, just aggravation from anticipation of dreams growing feet and pushing me up trees before dropping me back bark-covered. Instead I’m basket tossed (awake), scribbling tirades against an army of cats clawing new entries with loud single-tone language. Evolve. Grow thumbs.
In the no-sleep the now is Real, lost minutes tick-tock on metronome clocks I pretend not to watch or memorize each morning before flipping double middle fingers to my anime pop rocking dark-circled (and laughing) mirror selves.
In the soothing hum of pseudo awake shaved heads are beautiful, designed to activate human purr and every nerve ending from fingertip to clit until eyes turn fire mid flutter.
Pseudo awake I’m more than adored, shit-fit marinating bile dark into love and loving.
Pseudo awake he is the inhaled breath of a-ha, eel-eyed green pilgrim of the ocean’s ocean, alien device buried in a hand pretty enough to distract inspection and howl-spark me the adored. His hovering others may never land. He’s never landed either.
In the pseudo awake the War of the Worlds reading ends a bit different. A nation duped by a shot-charged radio reading isn’t duped twice by those eager to convince them they fell face over fist into processed panic. You know, like made up and put on the radio. That wasn’t real or anything. Ahem.
Silk static transmissions slide down walls, stumble over the philosopher’s knots of my word-angry hands, future fall apart escalated to giggle-splattered red-eyed now.
In the soothing hum of pseudo-awake Pan has no ick. He’s glued to a chair, and underwater.
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