Really … a felt marker? Is that all that is required? To write things down. Had I known earlier I’d had taken notes. As it stands, I remain. She is so hot. She kneels on the bed. She pulls down the front of my briefs and my cock springs into action. I watch her mouth open. A woman’s face so close to my sex. Her blonde tresses spill onto my lap. I grab her ass. She comes at me sideways. I want her sex on my nose. My ears are burning as I lick her pussy. She holds me there with her thighs. Rubbing the back of my head. She starts twisting and bucking. I worry about a broken neck. We stare blankly ahead as we make love. She wants to come. I want to come. Go ahead already, she says. Come into my pussy. Zig sleeps in beds of women who adore him. Makes no sense. He is as ugly as a Neanderthal. Fragile. Broken. The world could crush him at a moment’s notice. Zig spends his life bewildered. Fleeing from one place to the next. Flannel shirts. Dungarees. He does not require much. Night becomes impossible. Day. We breathe. We are the bellows of the fire. Exhale. Inhale. Snore if you must. Keep the planet spinning. Atmosphere and all. We make love under an enormous sky. Her buttocks press tightly against my loins. I look at her back. Spine. Shoulders. Under her armpits I can see the curve of her breasts.  I yelp a cosmic scream. I always forget what I forget. Then I remember. And it begins all over again. The Being. The walking.

Sixty-eight pages of nonsense. The writer’s job is to be alone. I am never alone. I am haunted by ghosts. Hungry ghosts. The blue-blinking ghosts of Pac-Man. Chasing after you. Like the Kraken. Thirteen thousand words. None of them are mine. I borrowed words from the borrowers. Language is mind control. If you don’t think so, think again. Escape. Be real. Be fake. She is so angry at me. Glaring at me. Wanting me to… what? Am I not enough? Am I too much? I am a handful. I admit. Handfuls of ass. 3:33 pm. We make love in a rough arc. Zig feels her vagina inching down the shaft of his penis. She starts pumping her ass. Incredible. I know not at all what I say. How can I? What? Is it not strange how seagulls use the medium of air in our atmosphere? As fish use the medium of water. Man is so fixed to a horizontal axis by gravity. Books. People. Autobuses. Strange how we keep things going. Keep moving. Even the mind is restless. Especially the mind. Particles bouncing. Ping-ponging against each other. I had a girlfriend. We used to fuck in my bed. It was nice. We made love. Now, all I do is work. Pleasure of the text. Metropolis. Take care, Big Man! See you later, Boss. I was walking. Zooming. Coffee man wished me salutations. I gave him my best Peter Falk impersonation. The hand wave. Serpico under the Hell Gate Bridge. I am a filmmaker. I am an eyeball. New York is a city of empty beer bottles. How can it be otherwise. Somebody has to guzzle the stuff. Easy on the Pilsner. Leave some for me. You and your electronic masks. Ruby Waves. Two faces looking at each other as their groins and hips find each other. Yowling and grunting. Ass-grabbing. His cock has increased in thickness. She feels it through her panties. Through his briefs. They are kissing on a single bed with their jeans off. Fantastic. Unbelievable. At length … approach the glistening. Zig holds up three fingers, five fingers, four fingers. He is doing some weird calculus with his hand. Anybody who sees him thinks he is a madman! A supercomputer! Language collapses. You become a lunatic. Everybody else says something except for you. His hand slides up her skirt and cups her pubic mound. His ass swings to and fro, a pendulum between her buckled knees. She braces herself for an orgasm. Hands balling into fists, grasping the Queen-sized fitted sheets. ”Fuck!” she says. “Fuck!” The endgame is at hand. Possibly a few last moves. The penultimate. It is good one can stop and think between moves. Possibly forever. She is a dazzling lover. No question. I can hardly keep my eyeballs in my sockets. Let alone not tell all my friends at the tavern the next day. I have no friends. I keep our secret to myself. I am discrete. She tells everybody. We are gliding towards Nirvana. Nothing can stop us now, she says. She is on top. I am holding her ass. My palms bigger than she or I imagined. When she comes, we are everybody everywhere. The perplexity of our existence is beyond the beyond the beyond. The bafflings. What else can we call it? Moments of Uncertainty. Pretty much all the time. I hear the clattering of Marley’s chains. Yes. I am terrified. How can I not be? I push the sofa against the metal door. Useless. I wait. I listen. Silence. Buttocks in our hands. A breast in the mouth. The nipple is hard like a pebble. We are twenty-two, twenty, nineteen. We are forty-four. We are eighty-eight. We still want. Tenderness & intimacy eluding us for so long too long, so precious, so rare. Her gaze fixes on my rising cock. I watch her take off her panties. Her sex glistens. We get into position. The excitement. The approach. The angle. We prepare our bodies for too much pleasure. 6.24.73. Stella Blue. Something is wrong, really, what. I sit in a Toyota. I stare blankly ahead. Waiting for something to happen. Now, I am in an apartment. A box. A machine. If you spend too much time writing the electronic interviews, there is no time for the novel. Do not let this happen to you. Is it happening to me? Not yet. Almost. I must fight it! The Kraken! Toast with butter. Marmalade. The number 13666 is terrifying. What does it mean? Word count? She lays back and lifts her buttocks to removes her panties. I lay on my side and I caress her belly. Everybody says stay inside. We are already inside. Peeping through peepholes. Listening. I hear the hum of a television machine. There are thirteen pine slats supporting the single mattress of a bunkbed. I sleep in the wilderness of the imagination. In other words, I do not sleep. Everything is real. Every syllable. Every vowel. She feels with a hand for the cock in his briefs. It comes flying out like a dangerous adder. She starts to giggle. Gives it a fast suck. She wants to fuck. Her pussy charms the snake. Lures it into the dark. The man worships the woman’s small breasts and big ass for the rest of his life. The clangor of steel wheels and a loose underbelly. The machine moves along iron rails. Passengers ignore being in motion. Pretend otherwise. Reading novels. Eating potato chips. The dishwashing machines is washing dishes with boiling sprays of water. The brainwashing machine is washing human brains in electronic whirlpools of information. Click if you like it. Double-click if it gets you horny. We are half-limp plastic people in the exploding Universe. What happens next? Eh? Are you prophet? Are you an engineer? Are you a harpooner? Did you see something in the water? A shadow in the deep? Keep your belly on the boogie-board. Kick a little less. Splash a little less. The Kraken lurks. Submerged. Invisible. Waiting to emerge. Nothing phone. Pick it up. Hello? Nobody. Nobody is there. Or here. Pressed tightly. A backwards glance. Truckin’. 9.10.72. Stop burning fossil fuels. Cannot help it, pal. I am American. It’s just funny to even have language.

photo: @deeezyfree

I am the king of the composition notebook! This is my kingdom; this is my realm. Beware of the blue ink lines … and white oblivion. I am beyond language. I stare into a machine. Not a single thought. I am a giant eyeball. Absorbing. Getting larger. Plumper like a grapefruit. The pupil dilates. Opens … opens … a little more … burst! The man and the woman stand facing each other at the foot of a bed in a room in an apartment in Manhattan. Return to self. Yikes! Is this me? This discrete entity. This quantum being. I emerge and reemerge. I vanish. I appear. I zig. I zag. Cooler Universe, please. Three degrees Kelvin is still a little too warm for my digital existence. Until then, I shall hibernate. Well pal what? Are you listening, are you believing? Are you feeling? Things are going okay. Mediocre. I do not know. What is happening? Is something happening? Am I happening? I watch pleasure pass across her face. She is fucking me. I am fucking her. Her breath quickens. Her mouth opens. We lose our minds. It is incredible. Fantastic. Never to happen again. Not like this. There is only this now. You. Me. What? The frenzy of language. What are you saying? What am I saying? Uptown & the Bronx, baby. Waiting for the bus. The Q69. Trying to get somewhere. Anywhere. Lawn Boy. 7.25.17. Zig sits in a cafeteria. What is it that I am thinking? Is there any way to know? Zig sips coffee. Looks around. Darkness. The lights are off. Saves energy. Save the planet. Early morning sun filters in through high windows. Birds chirp. Spring is a distant rumor. Perhaps things are okay. Zig is unsure. How to know? Without embarking on a thought experiment. Zig can think himself into any coördinate in the Cosmos. Or so Zig thinks. Zig chuckles aloud at his thoughts. What a silly boy. Old boy. Old man. What is age in the age of the Ageless? Zig is an electronic being. Zig is a quantum being. Anything is/was/will be possible. A thought gets you anywhere in less than an instant. There are dangers, of course. The Kraken, for one. Other lesser dangers too. Unknowable ones. Unknowable unknowables. Self-doubt. Fear. Anger. Lust. Thirst. Hunger. All the wonderful human feelings. Difficult to solder into a transistor. Not impossible. Difficult. Bus should be here in five minutes. 6:44. I walk around. I lose my mind. Birds chirp. Trucks honk. Whirlpool clouds. I am a diesel machine. I am a human machine. Twin stacks of the power plant. I watch you. You watch me. We move through the air. Particles. Waves. Sex is brought to a climax. Each of us gawking. Bewildered. We watch each other with fascination. Did you turn off your computer? Might devour your reality. Traveling through the subway tunnels of the metropolis I feel like an astronaut. She barely gets to know me. She pulls off my jeans. She presses me hard against a brick wall. Pushes her tongue into my mouth. I push back. 

If we do not read books we become puppets of the electronic State. Zig exists in the Wunderkammer. The velocity, dear reader, is up to you. We meet at a bar. Excited by new flesh. She suggests we go to her apartment. Who has time for the Universe? Not I, say I. We will never finish this novel. There is nothing to finish. Nothing to begin. I like you. I like your ass. Are there mistakes to be made? There are no mistakes. No more whats just this now however. We try to be otherwise what. I am mistaken. Am I mistaken? Apologize. She has a bushy sex beard. I’ll not forget. How can I forget? We become. We become. We become. What am I doing here? These coördinates are peculiar. Longitude. Latitude. Vectors in the Cosmos. Cartesian planes. Möbius strips. Sticky flypaper. I am a fly in the soup. I am a fly in the spiderweb. Escape. What exists? Questions begin with questions. I like fucking her. She has a fine firm ass. 

The man needs milk for his coffee. He does not want to get milk. It requires leaving his apartment. It is 7:36 am. 34 degrees Fahrenheit. Saturday. Bright and sunny. What is the problem? Everything! Everything conspires against the man. Quartet #11. Opus 95. F-minor. An orchestra is a machine for making music. 8:39, if it is possible. 7:04. This is 39th Avenue. Stand clear of the closing doors. Next stop Queensboro Plaza. I will sit on this plastic orange seat for the rest of my life. Watching the Cosmos spiral around me. Are you eager to use language? Are you hungry? We are underground people. Spelunkers. Hurtling through barrels of darkness. Pandemic. What does it mean? How do you protect yourself? Are the stainless-steel poles safe. Did you touch your eyes? Your nose? Should you keep your mouth open or closed? How do you speak? Is silence safe?

Language eludes me. Flight of experience. Being.

The yellow light of the sun is a thing to behold in the metropolis in late August. We make love in the warmth of her bed. She climbs on top. I hold her ass. 

ATM LOTTO

Food Mart. Fast. Fresh. Friendly.

ICED COFFEE

BEER

The sun is a fist-high on the eastern horizon. I am driving my machine. Trying to get somewhere. Anywhere. I pump it up with machine oil. Return to the stream.

Satellite dishes.

Hanging wires.

Elevated railroad tracks.

Radio.

An orchestra is a machine for making noise.

Something in F-minor.

11.8.69. The Other.

What is it really that is? Are we faking existence. Is this a plastic nanosecond?

Light comes through a skylight. The graylight of Greenpoint. Long Island City. The Pulaski Bridge.

Kiss each buttock before you push a tonguetip into anus. 

She hears a sound, what is it, what, she gets up, looks around, goes back to bed.

I am an experimental being.

The gnarled knuckles of a machinist.

I watch her ass rise and descend. She feels his hands touch her breasts.

The professor of law has lost his mind. It is all very good. It does not matter as much as he would have thought. He wanders the rubbish heap. The edge of a metropolis is a curious place. Everything ends up in a ring around the city. Everything you ever wanted. The professor does not lack for much. Even women give it to him now and again because he is an intellectual. The tweed jacket. The wild beard. The postmodern spectacles. It is hard not to see why. He remembers poems. He has a good singing voice. It is only a matter of time before Christ saves him. Or the Buddha. Or somebody. The professor has a habit of catastrophic thinking. That too excites the women. Panties get wet. A leg is thrown over the professor’s hip. He quotes Novalis. A tugboat on the river blasts a foghorn. The professor thinks of his mother. His father. How did we get here? It is never enough to think about the past. The future is far more interesting. The professor lives with immediacy. Trees whisper his true name. No alphabet can capture it. Breezes from the sea. Breezes from the mountains. His tin shack could be reconstructed in a day. Material is always at hand. He lives like a Neanderthal. Making tools out of stone. Felling scrubjays with a single throw. The pines are his friends. Crooked and true. Language still fascinates him. He says things that startle him: Data compression! Then his interest fades. Return to silence. Quiet of the mind. People chase him deeper into the pines. Jealous husbands whose wives park cars near the edge of the woods. The professor is on a sort of bucket list. Women post Selfies on the Internet. Sometimes they bring him sandwiches. A bottle of Czech beer. It is the language that intrigues him. These women say things nobody else says. Tenderness is lacking in human civilization. Naked people are gentler, more vulnerable. Sometimes a woman just wants to talk. Other times she wants a fuck. The professor no longer processes his feelings in a human way. He listens to the crashing waves of the sea. He has become a cosmic being. Orbits and velocities are the only universal law. Even such thoughts surrender to the great mysteries. The professor walks naked on the beach under the stars. He swims with harbor seals and great white sharks. The professor is not afraid. He is made of atoms. Particles and waves. The electricity of life is the interaction. He teaches others. Jenny from Great Neck. Helen from Schenectady. Veronika from Ronkonkoma. The teachings of the professor are spreading across Amerika. And he has no idea. That is the great beauty of it. A secret kept by the women themselves. Children are tucked in. Husbands are sated. In the vast emptiness of their minds the women keep swimming with the professor and the harbor seals and the great whites. Now and again, of course, there is blood. What a small price to pay for existence.

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.

19.

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.

photo: @cartayen

You are a half-genius. I like your other half. The better half.

Night irks me.

Disturbances.

The facelessness of an atomic fuck in Prague. We are on knees and hands giving more ass than we can handle. The buttocks against which we gyrate are the most delicious orbs we have ever tasted. We leave a beautiful note in a language we can barely speak. What does it say?

This is probably. Weirdly. A memoir. How can it be otherwise? Every novel is a novel in disguise. My fans are fanatics. The Zigheads. Under every trestle. On every bridge. They carry my book. Backpocket. Slips in nicely. Cult writer. Underground thinker. Spelunker. Keep it going.

I am not going to wait for Idaho Review to respond. Fuck that shit. I am going to keep writing. Keep on. As Gordon Lish is fond of saying. <<Electronically>> So to speak. Spoke to Brian BBQ. Who the fuck does that cat think he is? Calling me at all hours of the day: Read my story!

Shit. Wow. Just hit 9000 words. This is becoming biblical. I am on autopilot. King & Queen of Autofiction.

Particles of gray light showers a gray automobile in a parking lot. A man sits inside. Listening to Schubert’s String Quartet #15 in G major. His tennis racket strings are strung at 55 pounds per square inch. Pretty standard in the trade. Synthetic gut. The man has no real thoughts. Empty coffee cup. Engine off. Getting chillier by the moment. Last day in January. Seagulls land on the copper balls of flagless flagpoles. Streetlamps still lit at 9:13AM. The man is three minutes behind himself. What does that mean. He says goodbye to his wife. She is taking a shower. The man wants to see her buttocks. He sees a breast instead. She smiles. The highway is interesting. Flashing police lights. Under the flight path of the airport. People going to work. Changing lanes. Accelerating. Slowing down. Exiting. Beautiful insanity. Makes no sense. Does not have to. Just there. 

The man sits at a coffee shop. Reads a newspaper. A virus is surging around the planet. People are wearing face masks. The man sips his coffee. Too late in the afternoon, nevertheless, there he is. Waiting for something to happen. Light bounces off the surface of tables and chairs. People behind the bar say things to each other. The man cannot decipher the words. It is his language. Unclear. The music is loud. Bad alt-pop. The man feels annoyed. Isolated. Irrelevant. The day has been unmooring. Everybody is acting like a dick. 

Oh. I don’t know. You keep going. Isn’t that the message here? Disregard the Third-person. Not sure why I gave it a go. Experiment? Hardly. Detachment is more like it.

Under the trestle. Waiting. Hazards blinking. 7-train clattering. People walking by. People driving by. Rush hour. Commute. Get somewhere. Change of environment. Circumstances. We are like scorpions, the first air-breathers. 436 million years ago.

Back at the machine. Feels good here. This is where I belong. Outside it is too dangerous. Lunatic drivers. Piloting Subaru Foresters and whatnot. I got a pal who moved to Massachusetts. What is he doing up there? Picking apples no doubt. Shivering next to the wood-burning stove. I am here in the metropolis. The machine of all machines. Sipping tangerine seltzer. Envy me, do you?

There really is no other way to write is there?

I am killing it, man.

Forget plot.

You are the plot. You plotless being!

Eyes on screen. Eyes off screen. Do not miss everything else going on around you.

People keep sending me electronic missives. I dismiss. I misdiagnose. I make mistakes. Who are they? Swarms of electronic mosquitoes. We are stung. It does not really hurt. Irritates. Scratch it. Aggravates. The next morning, it begins again. Gray clouds. Poorly filtered light. I, vagabond.

My goal is a becoming.

Mmmm. This is good, man. Coffee. Now and again, I get it just right. Not too sweet. Little bitter.

Zig puts his palms on her hips. She bares her teeth when she approaches orgasm. She pushes her buttocks into his groin.

I get no mileage in the apartment. Best to go outside. Explore.

Still here. Cooking. Baking.

I wrote a book. I had to do something. Now I write another one. This is the bomba. The big one. The Kraken. The Hot Tamale. The Electric Eel. The Super Big Squid. You get the picture. I hope.

As we approach 10K, I cannot believe it. The journey has been so short, so long. So far to go.

Bank account looks…umm…skinny. A writer cannot live on ink. Squid ink. Wheretofore, pal? No idea. Losing it. Cannot even bake a cake. Family did not anoint me Star Baker. Cake fell. Final collapse of the ego. Perhaps a good thing. We shall see.

The Toyota is a literature machine. Ignite the engine. Plug in. Awareness of language. Satellite radio. Listening to the cosmic consciousness.

I am alert. 

Nothing is happening. I am happening.

3:55am.

A writer writes. Big whoop. So what.

The stars are exploding.

Our frenzy is observed by but a few. It is enough. Beyond me & you.

I brace myself. It is an incredible moment.

We are subway trains. Please stand away from the platform edge.

Next stop: 34th Street-Penn Station.

Delete all. Delete everything. Only this. Keep going.

I am a beginner.

I am new.

We are Radio People. Listening.

See.

I am sitting in the East Dining Room. Nobody is here. Plastic chairs. Twenty-one tables. Electric lights.

I am an adjunct lecturer of the human imagination. Must remind myself from time to time. Otherwise I get lost. Lose the way.

Are you a seeker?

A bodhisattva?

Buddha?

Language is incredible. 

Suggestions. 

Perceptions made. 

Transfer is available for the Q train across the platform.

We are Television People. Watching.

Nothing exists.

You know that, right?

The brain makes its noises.

The sex is mad good. We just look at each other bewildered. Again.

How can this be boring? To be alert. To be awake. To know this cannot go on forever.

Zig holds a transistor in the palm of his hand. Invented in 1948. Kaka was the rage in Greenwich Village. The Czechoslovak coup d’état in Prague. Zig is trying to wrap his head around it all. He kisses his girlfriend. She tugs at his cock. She opens her legs. Zig comes thrice. 

Kajetanka!

We really need to end this novel at the beginning of the beginning.

The Big Bang.

This is like Zeno’s arrow. Zeno’s Paradox. Will we ever get there?

Probably not.

Matters little.

So long as we are having a good time.

You cannot defeat me. Not with fame. Not with fortune. Not with 888888888 electronic eyeballs.

I am a wanderer.

I zig. I zag.

We keep falling asleep on each other. Under each other. Nights & days became twisted. A long braid of temporal existence. “Are we okay?” she says. “Who can say?” I say. Everything is so unpredictable. We cook spaghetti. We buy heavy curtains. Light keeps coming in. Sunlight.

Fingertip moves in slow circles on a clitoris. 

After lovemaking we watch an episode of Star Trek.

Photo: @naletu

My hands keep getting cold. I shove them into my pockets. I am wearing sweat pants. A flannel shirt. A black knit hat. Amerika is everywhere. Proselytizing. Selling. Electronic mass surveillance. Totalitarian capitalism. Coupons for Pizza Hut. Tickets to Disneyland. Promo codes for Amazon.

Zoë gave me a promo code for a blowjob. 

I used it.

We are consumers. We are makers. We are spectators. 

We are artists.

Where is your paycheck coming from? Just asking. Might affect your politics. Your situation. Your circumstance. Everybody begins at the beginning. Or do they? Are you a beginner? A pro?

Greenwald might go to prison in Brazil. This is so crazy. The Amerikas are crazy.

I ate beef today. That was a mistake. Where did the beef come from? I had no idea. It came in a plastic package. A pouch. We ate tortillas. Black beans. Coconut milk rice. Salsa.

I cleaned the black carbon filters in the Berkey water dispenser. I scrubbed them with the scratchy side of a blue Scotch sponge. Just like the YouTube video recommended. I am a genius.  

I got 206 bones with arthritis. Now what? Even my boner has arthritis.

$357 left in the bank account. Now what? Does it get any better? Can I afford to be a person?

I sat at a machine and I thought nothing.

Sleep, dear sleeper.

Machine consciousness. Is that what I am? Nothing more. Nothing less. The neighborhood is quiet. I am nothingless. The bank account is a burst of laughter. I am reeling. Unspooling.

We played a splendid game called hide-the-kielbasa.

Zoë kept glancing over her bare shoulder. I guess to check on my progress. Coming? Not yet.

Novels get in the way of novels. The big idea. The big think. You never know when it is going to happen. So you wait. Like a fisherman. Sometimes you have to surfcast. Lure the Kraken. Scream at the water. Wait for the ripples. The whirlpool. The rise of the great sea monster.

I live inside my mind like a lighthouse keeper.

Are you just a story you tell yourself? 

Things happen. 

So what. 

Pretty important to me. The being. I like it. The way it tastes. The fragility. The vulnerability.

Put your shoes together. Run run run run. You’ll be on the horizon in no time. Feel it. The curve of the earth. Life itself. 

There I go again. Not really here. Not really there. A lingering of previous selves. Echoes and hallucinations. Thunderclaps. Zoë’s ass against my thighs. Craving for one more go. Under the eiderdown. On the kitchen floor. In the backseat of a Buick. The Hudson is flooding. Up up up.

Forget language. It distorts. Underwhelms. And yet I am a fool for words. Lispector speaks of red ochre and yellow ochre. I see it. I can see it! And really, what do I see? A vague abstraction projected inside my skull. I am still alive. I think. At least that. So long as I am thinking & writing. Shortcuts to Nirvana. Take the switchbacks. Take the meandering road. Ululations.

Her clitoris erupted in an electric frenzy as if Zig had plucked the string of a cello.

I wonder if anybody is a good example of themselves.

I miss drawing. I miss being.

I miss the cigarette. I miss the ashtray. I miss the glass of beer. Everything is forbidden. I forbade.

I almost became me.

I had to leave empty space.

I needed room.

I left. I fled. A becoming. Experiments in being. Quantum entanglement. She was more beautiful. I was the observer. Engaged. Detached. Everything at once. I surrendered. Squeezed buttocks. 

I destroyed my body. Now I eat spinach.

Is there anything left of me? 

I begin again.

Unsolved problems. I have more than a few. My skills are lagging.

The 88-day orbit of Mercury is on my mind. Not sure why. Faster year? Hotter planet?

She opened her legs. She had ginger-ale hair. We made love like never before. It was the greatest night of my life.

This is almost where the book begins. Right here. Now. In your face. At your feet. We are prostrate creatures. Undulating. Becoming. Sea cucumbers. Electric eels. Tentacles of a jellyfish.

I get so angry at nothing.

Achilles’ heel.

Aphrodite’s cock.

The progress we have made is astonishing. Remember? Remember when we were beginners?

Too bad. Whatever. Goodbye. Haha!

Machine poet

People just sitting in cars. All across Amerika. Across the planet. In parking lots. Alone. Just thinking. If that is what this is. Like me.

This is a solitude machine. I get away from my family. My beautiful wife. My beautiful kids. Everybody is going bonkers in the apartment.

I am sipping coffee. Trying to get rid of my thinker’s headache. Getting ready to play tennis. Against people I barely know. I’ll let you know how it goes.

It was okay. Just okay. Ever feel that way?

People are curious beings. What makes them tick? Are we machines? Are we flesh? The vulnerability of it all.

I am riding in a subway car. Is it better than an automobile? Yes and no. I am without satellite radio. Beyond control. 

Anything can happen.

The text. The text. I must stop reading. I must stop writing. Forgetting the Being. The rawness of life. The hurt. The squirm.

We are apologists.

“Take care, brother!” That is what the coffee guy said. I forgot I owed him money. I apologized. Felt bad.

What am I? A forgetter?

Gonna make myself a little better. Put on some fresh new clothes. Get a fancy friggin haircut. Alligator boots. Chinchilla mittens. A walking stick.

Sex has its ramifications. We had just finished. It had been quite incredible. Neither of us had believed such things possible. We lay there. As naked as Adam & Eve.

The protagonist Zig was giving life a go. We erase everything. Memory. Experience. Zig had to refabricate everything. From scratch. From Nothingness.

His first girlfriend sat on him. She gave him something to think about for the rest of his life. Butt-lifts and rabbit hops. The electric frenzy. Zig never quite recovered.

Are you a television child?

I am not really me. How could I be?

I tied my shoes in the Czechoslovakian style. I walked downstairs. Onto the street. The asphalt felt good. Everybody was happy. It was Thursday.

Everything was possible. Friday might happen. I thought so too. Only the naysayers were gloomy. Predicting apocalypse. I needed to get away from negativity.

I was zooming. Hiphop stepping. Electric zigzags. Thinking and rethinking. I was a cosmic thinker. A thought without a thinker.

Paper bags of groceries. Nuts. Muesli. Blue corn chips. Salsa.

You are the rider.

I know you rider.

It just gets creepy. Riding the rails. Sidestepping the psychopaths.

People stare. Straight ahead. Through your head. Reading the subway map. There is no guide in the Underground. Virgil has evacuated.

I am a poet. I am a machine. I am a machine poet.

Zig & Zoë. We appropriated and repurposed each other’s orgasms. Cosmic echoes. Howls of the Universe. 

We engaged in carnal intercourse with a relish not seen in human beings in millennia.

The Kraken keeps peeping up through the surface of the whirlpooling waters of Hell Gate. 

I see you.

You see me?

8808 words creeps me out. But here we are. Wait until we get to 88808!