Machine 10

Jindřich Štyrský, Emile Comes to Me in a Dream, 1933

The novel is completing itself. 

I simply watch.

I remember the first time I put my face into a mass of pubic hair. 

            Too late… almost.

I am nineteen.


Everybody keeps track of everybody. It is a nightmare.

The writer must… well… perhaps? I sink into jargon. Collapse under absurdity. I, Zig the machine. Rise, you human being! You big mistake. You beautiful mistake. We must conquer. What. Exactly. You lose your way. Breadcrumbs will not help you. Particles. Waves. Ariadne’s silk. A spiderweb of electricity ensnares you. Break free. Yes. Please. By whatever means & ways.

You are collider.

Her rump against your pelvic bone. You cry out. She giggles. The Cosmos echoes the giggles.

Sex is a conversation.

Zig lays there feeling the tone and texture of a blowjob. “Careful!” Zig whispers.

The fluctuating muscles of buttocks during a rigorous fuck.

The bright light of eternity is darkness.

A flicker.

Command-end. I see the page of oblivion. I scroll into nothingness.

Thoughts. Permutations of thoughts. Half-thoughts. Half-giggles. We are insane. The right response. Spirals. Parallelograms.

Predictability of reality? Shaping the repetition. Difference. What are we? Sometimes?

Keep going. Electric swimmer. Spermatozoa. Spermatozoon. Wiggles. Zigzags.

Intercept, a novel.

People walk around knowing and not knowing. City of unknown unknowns. Are people knowable? Are you?

I fell off Gaddis. I fell off the fucking page. That was a while ago. I am so elsewhere. 

I might be the only one. The only writer. The brain is just reporting this information.

I no longer trust language to say anything. [I] being [I]. She lowers. I’ll not forget. We lay bewildered. Almost happy. Waiting for change. Uncertainty. Anything can happen. A lot of noise is made during the act. Silence. Talking will begin soon. 

I think of this book as a hypertext. You need not read it in chronological order. You need not read it at all.

Everything is connected.

Nodes of existence.

Waiting for Mom to come home. Is she coming? Are you coming?

The house is an apartment is a labyrinth of unfinished chores. Everywhere we look, something lurks. Recycling bags of plastic bottles are to be curbed. Plastic bags of garbage, too.

10:22pm. Nothing is happening. 

I stare at myself.

Earth rotates. I tag along for the ride. Thousand miles an hour. I do not feel a thing.

Did you turn off your computer? Might devour your reality.

I am bombarded by particles of light.

Darkness at the fringes of the curtains. The fringes of the Universe. A panel truck is parked on the street. Beings there not at all. Intelligence agents inside gather intelligence. Listening. Murmurs under the eiderdown. Listening. Fast radio blasts in the far fringes of the Cosmos.

The agents are everywhere. They must be. Chaos and disorder. The System is under threat.

A novelist has no goal. The purpose is purposeless. Cannot be any other way. Uncertainty. 

The American experience is really something. Eh? Are you experiencing it? Do you live in Germany? Botswana? Thailand?

These damn elm trees. The quivering branches. Slanted light. Blocked in part by a hulking bridge. 

Tortillas in the fridge. Panties in the hamper.

Thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit. We are still in the HZ. The Habitable Zone. Nice planet.

Electronic rage. Kids want the machines. Kill for it.

Valentine’s Day. 4:44pm. Taking agency over my narrative. Her ass is a little bigger than perfect. In other words, perfect. She walks by on purpose. I can tell. Pretending to be interested in something. Not purchasing anything. Returning to her seat. Yeah. I notice. You wear glasses, too. It will be fun taking our glasses off, kissing and fucking. We will have to meet first, of course. Perhaps talk. I am silent. I remain silent. Makes conversation difficult. I must drink cucumber sparkling water. Sip coffee. Write furiously in my composition notebook. Distract myself from the nothingness on the fringes of my existence. I may never fuck again. Not like I used to. Every writer disintegrates. Dissolves.

Night keeps getting in the way of day. Day keeps fooling night. Everybody thinks it is an illusion. I know it is real. Everything. All of it..

She puts a bare leg over my hip. My big hand cups her right ass. She fellates my nose. Tells me I am beautiful.

It makes no sense. How can it?

A piece of writing is an attempt at understanding.

Every novel becomes a Cosmos.

Nobody beats Finland 43 times in a row. 

We used to be people. It becomes too fucking hard. We separate. Become animals. Eating & fucking.

The flavor of your life. What is it? Cucumber? Lime? Tangerine?

The wonder and awe of first sex. Buttocks clenching and unclenching. Cries of pleasure and disbelief.

I sip coffee. Thinking about emerging civilizations. Blinking in and out of existence. Somewhere in the Cosmos.

Expanses of time before us

we remove our clothes.

“Let’s get moving,” you say.

We do. 

I like books. Books like me. We get along in my apartment. Walls and walls of books. Eyeballs follow me wherever I go. Not even the kitchen is safe. Not even the lieu. I am a beggar of books. I borrow. I steal. Ideas are everywhere. The Zeitgeist. Reach your hand up into the stratosphere and grab a bolt of lightning. You must. It is your prerogative. You are a human being. A god. A goddess. 

The leader? Who is the leader? What is a leader? Is there a need for a leader? I don’t even know what to say anymore. I just stop saying. I just stop being.

Machine. Machine. Machine. I just need to say that. To remind myself. Progress is at hand. The mind is a labyrinth. Curving steel walls get in the way. Palm the surface. Push. Push. 

It begins and ends and begins and ends and begins and ends and begins and ends and begins

A string of zeros and ones bewilders us all.

Throwing our heads back into pillows. Laughing. Getting serious. Coming and coming.

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