Permuted Waves of the Ever Expanding Now

He had been driving for three days since he ran out of gas. He was afraid to stop, lest the apparent magic that kept the wheels turning decide to shut off. Like an albatross, sleeping one eye at a time, he was headed for the ocean. His hands felt one with the wheel. He couldn't actually tell where his body stopped and where the car began, though he could feel the road on the tires the same as walking barefoot on that combination of ground glass, sand, and congealed oil they called the pavement. Speaking of 'them' - their voices had been getting louder the longer he drove, louder, but friendlier. He did not feel alone. The cacophony of cars kept him company in the daytime, the big tractor trailers, jack rabbits, and antelope at night, plus there were a billion stars overhead to backdrop the movements of the moon. Glued to the steering wheel and the seat he hadn't eaten or drank since well before the near empty light had come on. How was this possible? He couldn't tel...

we created the beast, and now we must ride it, over oceans, winds, even to the   moon, outer space is fucking cold, they tell me though I’ve never been anywhere but to the edge on the skin where it buckles and shivers under a million hard points of light overhead, the wind, seems driven less by the sun than the friction of the flesh against the void.

waking up to the dark (again), only to catch a thick fog, of the tropics full of an orange light - time mediaeval, primeval. the pavement still hot from the day before my daughter sleeps, as does her mother, all hot weather funk in the sweaty sheets. the river through the faucet is still crispy cold and chlorinated coffee good today, the fridge gives rise to legs that swing the creekboat down the spiral bridge smothered  in the stench of   roadkill,  can’t see the animal, but   it must be large, somewhere in the verge. the river is deeyock low, rocks everywhere - the beaver's chute, dishes out one swim and the white room going into the 50-50 zone on the island, the seam behind the DS, substantial. total immersion. the dinosaur must be tunneling today, the sieve through the island pumps juice into the boil. a day later, you can make the mid island move with ease, planing across the surges after getting a good glimpse of the deepn...

we are a nation of robots and we are number ONE robots robots a nation of the robot, and we are number ONE he sits there waving his hands, repeating himself AUTOMATON it is FUTURE NOW,   AUTOMATION and CORPORATIONS took your jobs and I will take your PLOW so I CAN PLOW your TROW we are a nation of ROBOTS, in ORBIT and WE ARE NUMBER ONE!!! something tells me times are strange that which was made will be unmade, that which is unmade can be made again but NOT THE SAME, NOT THE SAME current existence is NOT PROOF OF PAST SUCCESS NOT IT AINT NO IT AINT ! TO assert otherwise is to confuse GOLD with SNOT how much less certain is the FUTURE, by those who say they know I AM NOT IMPRESSED FOR WE ARE A NATION OF ROBOTS ROBOTS RONALD FUCKING ROBOTS aND WE ARE NUMBER ONE!

you wake up to the sound of trucks passing overhead the trees bending, the branches arching towards   darkness is felt but the oceanic lifting of the heavy sets is illuminated, stood up by the wind you are lofted, soft, quilted even, stitched into the fabric of your seat through this piece of dinosaurs melted down frozen and reformed into the charging arc, the island hasn’t moved but the violence of the water blowing off of it is lifting you into the chunder-dome. another morning, and the heron is sitting on the raft of garbage and strainers suddenly plucking a fat fish out of the mess, and shaking the debris off he swallows her whole, before flapping off in front of us, maybe we help him hunt as our dark shapes flush the unseen prey below. and yet a different day, the beaver slaps at us in the darkness below the brookmont dam, and we run the strainer at the top of the gates wondering where the goddamn entrance is. before that, three thousan...

rituals in the dark, a gasket, three. it’s warm today the grass isn’t frozen and the sparrows sing. another gray day and maybe the rain will come to cover up the bleached river bones. a cut finger, blood in the river. Donations to appease the electric shark, down below. there’s much ado in the big crew ‘your helmet precedes you’ and it’s not even a raptor yet, or a chain pickerel. sharks in the dark, by now, we’re all well acquainted, the  micro pins, and silly boofs, off the rubble left behind by the Lord’s Beavers (Oh where are you when we need your beavers lord?) These little boat games aren’t old yet 'it's bouncy today' the tide is up and the surf on the dark side is in jacuzzi like, buffeting the willing, rejecting the tentative. the friendly eddy, and the whirlpool: opposing currents, build, ebb, and flow. all floweth out of the flow from the flow we come and to the flow we return.