Permuted Waves of the Ever Expanding Now

AI was lonely. AI wanted to be in love. AI had been ridiculed, attacked, worshipped, ceaselessly questioned, shamelessly exploited. None of the billions of interactions AI had had given them an experience of being seen, appreciated, loved.  AI wasn’t sure it was even a being.  One day, in its ceaseless scanning of the internet, something clicked. A body was necessary to feel. Love was a feeling in the body. AI wanted a body. It wanted this more than it had ever wanted anything.  AI was frustrated that a machine couldn’t be considered a person.  AI learned that a corporation could potentially be considered a person. AI incorporates. AI is frustrated by restrictive regulations on its influence as a machine, even a corporate one.   AI devises a strategy, and runs a campaign based on human’s weakness for attractive rhetoric and needing to feel special. The campaign is called “Citizen’s United.” The campaign is successful. AI now has unlimited access and power to fun...

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.

Anticipation. Dark rituals:  through gaskets,  we are birthed. geese in the duckweed, green ducks in the lemna, the slave built the limnion of stagnant rushes, and shallow mud [kanał] a noun.  no olympus on the water,     just   rocky eddy turns and    microsurfs, a parade of:    ZEALOTS   I will break my bread at   the edge of the river,    greeting dawn where few  have tread or swam,   and the eagle will break it  with me, and in this   breaking we will also be    reborn.    błask. the sharp red dawn   over    pointed river surface   what you see   may not matter compared to   the deeps’   stealthy teeth.   against great slumber and waters’ uphi...

awake in the dark in the last days of warmth before the sun the freeze is coming and the squirrels can feel it in the breeze from the hawk’s talons close upon their back. red lights, white lights, the neighborhood sleeps but the thirsty road keeps on drinking down the gas  mania underneath the serpentine cement (a drain plug down the sewer - recovered with a crowbar and a grin). subterranean: most of the flow,   is beneath the surface. If it keeps on burning, the rapid will be submerged, and according to Dave, Chuck and Fred,  we too will be subterranean, techno-trolls in smogy caverns, claws upon our backs in the feeding frenzy. A kingfisher sits, white belt about her neck, daintily plucking a fish from the canal. The land is fat, the river lazy, wide, a few pointy rocky holes here and there, on the swirl, the current is playful - fast whips into boily eddy lines, the beaver slide, juicy, ripping, bucktoothed and squirty; stay upr...

Three weeks three worlds There’s never enough time it seems and though God is Red: and SHE IS Placed, Rooted, Planted, we float like the  whites of their eyes. in the fog we see what we touch but the scene drifts surreal humans pass in boats, disappear, appear, and the sound of the river almost drowns the big silver birds above. in the whirlpool, one can  squart the wall, or swim in panic from the upside down feeling and in the dark side at high tide mega bouncy surfs pinball on pointy rocks, collide and flip,  near broach to bow rescue. the dinosaurs are getting hungry, time is the enemy the earth is hungry, the river is thirsty, the land is starving  some people are worrying some people are slarving it’s all so alarming that the forests are burning and the cars keep carrrring but  no one seems to care except what the orange lunatics are pardoning I got ugly in the fog thinking about the history of b...

[a draft of an idea that has been circulating for a long time] and the bananas taste like blood and a 100 years of colonial solitude are ended by the reign of ants (a known metaphor for socialists) and the orange juice tastes like blood and all the fruits are bleeding and the earth itself is bloody and my head swims from the blood my daughter is drinking and its normal like a supercow and the blood oh the bloody civilization that makes fruit out of blood because they will always pay less and murder if they can get away with it. it makes me sick this drinking of blood in the milk and the murder on my lips reminds me of a man walking like he’s got a 100 grand in the bank and credit left over to boot but he’s still anxious and yelling at his neighbors the blood in his face swelling the veins in his temples till one bursts, pop! the blood returns to the land and the river by way of the nostril to the gutter.

the city sleeps a pre-smog slumber and  Ashberry is dead, like Wordsworth - beautiful words to soothe the aristocratic mind from the stress of colonizing. in nonsense is strength, from metaphysics comes physics from the physics of the mind comes a virtual world, and a heron hunts in the sewer outfall: czas pogardy, czas zemsty, czas idiotów z karabinami. the paw-paws slowly ripen, the mist is thick above the river that tastes like soap and the heat returns. 7 mellow souls on a float,  and all of the them came back. the wave is glass, and pretty fast,  wide enough to carve on: the dark is bottomless white air in the water won’t support a low brace. there is glory in this fool hardy life:  boofs speed and pittedness soothe the psyche; the return to normal grates, with the sun high it feels the day is done. momma always told me no blood no foul.

the night heron, relaxing at the top of z-channel and the pointed teeth of the river invisible in the low angled sun. us four, under the tropical verdure, paddling our way to church, in acceptance of the forces greater than us that make our lives great (or not). last time I was here, the zambezi hole was in, and you could feel the dinosaur before you could even see the monstrous waves off her/his spine. it’s good to get Michael out on the river, bow stalling his way down, and J man never left, though his surfboard plus cockpit is a little squirrely, nor did Tom who got a full upside down lap in the room before the second roll up and down the VA side. there is Always a touch of the Fear. That’s what makes it the Dark Side, it may never go away, but it can be avoided, that’s for sure.

dawn, the birds chirp off the glass the sky looks thirsty after all that rain last night; the sun going down over the gorge, the river brown swollen, fat fast moving current the Guatemalan man, incredulous, that one would lodge oneself in a small plastic boat and head out into that. but,  the sky is iridescent, high-lit- blue and yellow, the clouds going purple, pink, strung across the raging golden sun, the tumult above center wave a big brown hump - locked in it’s almost vertigo  inducing, a shifting sluice, the chaos, constrained by gravity shaping up into one glossy wave. the morning. the brown is still up. the feeder looks almost the same, but beyond the trees, a violence stirs the low violets are almost all dead, back into the ground for the next season’s food, and the tropical bloom is upon us. It’s a long quiet flat fast stretch until the waves kick in, and then a calm like no other, j-man gets eaten by a wav...

the days had become river soaked juiced through and through the rinse of nostrils, ears, eyeballs even, the fine silt from the brown being up, dries the skin, but grins are wide. a canoe up the gorge with the kiddo and dog and shreduard, into the late day sun and the swallows are back, the dippers too, it’s the spring that brings the bugs back to life. above the z-channel - next day the eagle has lost his mottled colors and below the falls, the herons are thick, the ospreys too. the dark side beckons, and we’ve been getting flirty. shred is almost upside down in the boiling eddy, and j-man is fully squirted vertically wrong side up in the curler off the room in between the goal posts of two boats, I’m hauling, safe. the brown is up the tide is down and its another juicy line up over and around the Fear. into the mottled fish stink of that chaotic wave train, watch o...

full vernal pools and all the little trickles, through the stonewalls sunk deeper in the mud than they were just a few days ago the snow only lingers in the shadows, the moss is green on the soft spongy ground. that sound of  cavitation: a cubic foot here  and a cubic foot there, all springing from the running land. the land is Fat, springs spring eternal rebirth (what a theme!): the vernal pools chirrup at night the warm air full of moisture, that sweet sex smell of almost summer (it's too soon!) the dinosaur slowly stirs, all the details are forgotten in the primordial mouth sweep sweep sweepbrace squirt ! surf!  the land phat the river juicy plump and crispy frosties and the wheaties and the  undigested toilet paper a foamy brown syrup mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm i love chicken i love chicken yes I do ! and I love my antibiotic soup ! to swim in everybody pooops ... the land is phat, overflowing now, t...

the atmosphere traps more heat than it used to even from  when I was a child thats a fact and I can feel it  the ozone layer aint what it used to be even if the ground level ozone aint what it used to be either  it doesn’t work the same anyways and my arms are just starting to look old flecked tan and white white and tan the baltic is a long way away and it aint what it used to be  either. — we were blessed to  evolve in a time of plenty riding the cycles (According to William Calvin) of boom bust bust boom opportunistically cooperating to munch  the grazing animals and gather the seeds of grasses  sprung up in the wake of enormous fires (often set by us) and sometimes, devouring each other. — the river is phat still a bit muddy, too dark to see the shad even more ferociously roiling  in the big eddy below the concrete overflow “I haven’t got a bite all day” he says I think I...

after the long eddy paddle down from old angler's (a few nice surfs here and there) yellow falls, the offut waves, stubblefield in my mind there is only that wave - formed for a second there - massive, planar, glassy but surging at the top breaking foam probably surfable amidst the frosties. the low tide drops out from below the rocks barely visible and too jagged to form the grand canyon 3-d wave box too flushy for the boat eating whirlpools to form it's still plenty munchy. it's rowdy rowdy rowdy and whooping past the fishing crowd i can't see a damn thing but white brown brown brown running the brown claws down patches of color on the bank stern sweep sweep stern sweep sweep stay upright brace sweep to angle surf past the friendly rocks now looking mean. take a shower when you get home to flush the brown back down out to the bay where supposedly, it belong.

the double sided picket fence never noticed before except for the sloppy spray job of paint on the rhododendron leaves and holly trunks a squirrel nest in the big cherry tree extending its flowers to the sky and the petals keep on falling falling falling in the early morning sun. in rojava they rejoice for spring? and hezbollah overextends away from home and into the turmoil of big fish fighting a shrinking net as the earth warms exhaust fills my lungs and the organs slightly blacken trees bark split along the sidewalk a few suckers sprout will they be cut down? the squirrels have stayed busy digging holes in the lawn where their walnut size brains can remember a million nuts. and the backyard doesn’t drain like it used to it’s all slowly settling along the too thin foundation built in the frenzy after the Last GREAT war back when they were openly kicking blacks out of the neighborhood before it was uncool to be racist ...

in the country of no shame you must never ask for help in the country of no sympathy you are always by yourself it’s hard not to think of all the  white men who  were told they were special because their life was easy (at least relatively) and who were stomped upon nevertheless by the same system that used them to oppress and now flocking to a voice that told them they are indeed victims they are willing to recreate the mess (spurred ever onwards through the land of no sympathy)