Machine 13

There is no language. I try to talk. I try to speak. I am met with silence. I am the Wilderness. I belong in the Wilderness. Scrub oak & crooked pine. Stick-figure creatures. Peculiar man from a very very very long island. I am Zig. Naming it makes it so. Call it what you must. Earth. I know no other. This planet is my planet. The Cosmos. Space. Echoes in perpetuity. I have not forgotten. The near simultaneity of our orgasms. A certain awareness is required for existence. All the goodbyes we said. I think of Berlin. Sex is unfinished. She holds by head between her thighs. She wants me to put my tongue on her clitoris. She pushes my head further down her belly. She says: Are there patterns in our movements? Bracing myself. I am down below. Nipples like ripe berries. She wants me to see her breasts. She holds up her hair as she fucks me. The failing light of a dying sun. Eightyeightthousand frames per second. I examine the granular particles of each frame. Text is my film. Epicenters. We make love in small circles. Am I the total enchilada? Am I half-mad? Am I mad? It is yesterday. Czechoslovakian milk comes in a bag. Am I real? Is this normal behavior? I am bewildered. Amerika is a State of puzzlement. Orgasm is an expression of love. We do it. I have a girlfriend. She has a boyfriend. The fuck is singularly inappropriate. Zig & Zoë are a Machine. Knees & hands on the floorboards. Opening. Awestruck. Gasping. Nearly falling over with pleasure. She fellates me. Something I can tell. Something I can relate. An episode. Anything. Something to happen. Waiting for an event. I enter a space. I enter a room. I animate. I breathe. Space contracts. Time expires. Sideways. Fucking. Zoë has a leg up on me. Nobody has a leg on me. Picasso. Lucky Charms. I delight in the art. Trapezoids. Quadrilaterals. Cubes. Perfect cardboard boxes. Such beautiful packaging. It is remarkable. The food from the supermarket. I eat the food. I. Me. You. Machines. Apartments. Making us helpless and stupid. Ancient city, what are you doing to us?  Yet we remain. It is safer to leave. We wander the ruins of a metropolis. Nothing matters except what remains. Ass in his hands. Zig admires the backs of her thighs. Just to see. Pull the curtains. Do you guess at normal behavior? Your phone is a supercomputer. We are electronic beings. This book is no longer made of paper. Makes no difference. Might keep going too. Let the manuscript unscroll. I might end it here. We are getting uncomfortably close to the epicenter of my being. Volkswagen Beetle. Ferdinand Porsche stole the design for Hitler. I like the Tatra 411. Look it up. It exists. Zetor. Grandpa drove a tractor. I make nothing. Grandma used to make dumplings. The goulash of existence. Waiting for the porridge. Waiting to be poured. A vessel. I am an empty cup. I have no skills. All of them. I believe in my skills. Who can live on 25K? Who can say: a novelette? A novella. 25K and what have you got? Floating. Floating. Am I really so terribly alone? Am I really here? Is this the Cosmos? Searching. Outstretched. Fingers and palms. Tactile experience. Feeling my way around. I am in an apartment. Echolocation. Reflections. Shadows. Neanderthal kitchens. Cabinets. Angles. Corners. Bats are the only flying mammals. How now? If so, what next? Is it collapsing? Are my thoughts gathered? Does my hair look good? I am terrified. Looking out a window. Sipping coffee. Alert. Awake. Everything is like whatever it is, right? Who forgets? Sounds & scents of fucking. She folds her labia over his Ben Jonson. Every new technology brings a war. The increasing wakefulness of being. Amerika beguiles. Fedora? Trench coat? Camouflage underpants? Parachute pants? Velcro? Electromagnetic? What fibers? What sort of clothing does one wear in the electronic environment? Open yourself. Open this novel. This is the news you need to read like right the fuck now! Did we lose the trajectory of Zig and Stefani? You said yes in thunder. Between her lips you feel like a god. Lowers your fly. She unsuits you. A gift. A flicker. You exist. There are no guarantees in the Universe. Vermillion is a city in South Dakota. Ochre is an ancient pigment. 

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