New morning. New day. Are you awake? Clarify the moment. Breathe in. Exhale. Molecules of air. There is no breeze indoors. Only human thoughts. Swirling. Spiraling. Chaos & Disorder.


What is it?

Inventions of the mind. Distortions of reality. Turbulence. Entropy. Machine-made mind. Progress. Progress of a novel. Progress towards Nirvana. I am a bodhisattva. I am aroused by the thought of Enlightenment. I pursue the ox. I embark on the Way.


Leave the home behind.

Brisk walker. Keep walking. What do you see? Is it time to shave the head? Yes. It is always time. Are you afraid? Do not be afraid. Ten thousand Buddhas walk with you. 

Infinity of Buddhas.

Sit under the bodhi tree. Are you a dharma seeker? Here in Astoria, Queens is such a thing possible? Of course it is. Of course. How could it be otherwise? You have lain with many lovers. Forget their names. Can you forget? A test for you. I renounce my name. I am nameless. A bowl for rice. A flannel robe. Gnarled stick. I walk. I am the grunge Buddha. Pearl Jam. Nirvana.

Forget these sounds. Listen to Zappa. Captain Beefheart. Forget them, too. Karlheinz Stockhausen. Helmut Lachenmann. Forget! Surrender to the vast emptiness, nothing holy. The number 2222 is a special number. Ask no questions. Words. Numbers are beyond words.

Philip K. Dick has his Exegesis. This is mine. I am exploding. I am a Supernova. I am a Quasar. The brightest luminosity in the Universe. The brightest phenomena in the Cosmos.

I am a dragonfly.

Ephemeral as aether.

K. unsnapped Zig’s fly. She gave him the blowjob of the century. Zig lay there in disbelief & awe. I must forget the person I was. Cannot linger. Sukha. Leave the home. I get a haircut. A buzzcut. I feel aerodynamic. I might hit a first serve at 263 kilometers per hour. I hear water gushing through pipes. I hear cars humming over a motorbridge. A plane prepares to land at LaGuardia airport. Everybody is going somewhere. I am sitting. Mind is electronic fire.

If you scroll through this novel, it reads faster. Tips of our thumbs are fingertips. Easy on the eyeballs. Not too fast! Might start the storytelling pretty soon. Prepare yourself. Are you ready? Something is clearly happening here. Nobody knows what it is. The dog is being wagged.

Control knobs. Oscillations. What does it mean to be a human being? Carbon. Hydrogen. Nitrogen. Oxygen. Phosphorus. Sulfur. CHNOPS. A mnemonic device. A memory machine. In search of a rocky planet. Giant blue hypervelocity stars are defecting from the galaxy. Mind & body drops away. Well yes I am thinking… not thinking.

Protoplanetary discs are forming around young stars. Stardust accretes. Planets are born. I am thinking about this on Earth. The only planet with self-conscious life. As far as we know. What are the odds? What is the probability? What do you think of Fermi’s paradox? Hogwash, right? I mean, it is an intelligent observation. I just prefer to believe otherwise. Call it an instinct.

What if your brain is the greatest Space Telescope ever created?

Can you see?

Can you feel the stars?

Drifting. Drifting through the Cosmos. I am made of stardust. I am made of atoms. What keeps us together? Gravity? A few loose thoughts? This novel?

Earth pulls me back in. Stay here. Fix the leaking pipes under the sink. Read the newspapers about Baghdad Airport in Iraq. The extrajudicial killing of Iranian General Qassem Suleimani. The MQ-9 Reaper drone. Flying machines of death built by General Atomics. We could explore the stars. We could save the planet. 

Even Tucker Carlson is aghast.

What next.

How now.

Another Grateful Dead show?

Ignite a blunt. Eat a cupcake. Sip a coffee. Are you a veteran of the Atari Wars? Joystick in hand. Thumbing a red button.

Amerika is everywhere. Spreading its likeness. Absorbing. Repurposing. Propaganda factories manufacturing a reality. We are hungry ghosts. Eating. Consuming. Desiring. Wanting. Hurts to be a person. Particles colliding. Scattering. Into deep space. Into a void.

The gravity of a novel loosens its grip. We seek pleasure elsewhere. Netflix. A fuck. Roll & get rolled. Gasp. Spit. Palms under a buttock. 

You read Deleuze & Guatarri. 

A Thousand Plateaus.


Now, I am alert. Everything is an assemblage. You. Me. The cosmic machine. We are pinball wizards. Spiraling in a tilt-a-whirl. The flappers are flapping. The Roaring 2020s. 

On the edge of what?

It will be clear later.

When things settle. What things? I have no idea. I am the novelist. I know. I know. Uncertainty is my game. Who is on my team? I do not care about the Giants. The Jets. I sort of like the Pittsburgh Steelers. Because of a woman. I know. Not the greatest reason. Or is it? 


Love is a battlefield.

The winner takes it all.

I am a loser, baby.


The protoplanetary gas disc of this novel is starting to impress me. We are getting bigger. Absorbing the planetesimals. Creating a planet embryo. Giving birth to something new.

We expect.

We are expecting.


She is wearing her Steelers jersey. She is on her knees and hands. Looking at me over her right shoulder. Hut-one. Hut-two. Hike! We are making love. We are going at it. Looping and oscillating. Glimpse.

Really. Machine_a novel in progress. Who came up with that title? I did. Pilot of a Volkswagen Beetle. Zigzagging from one exploding star to the next. Planet formation is fascinating. The variability in solar systems is incredible. Hot Jupiters practically kissing the sun. Super Earths in improbable locations. Just like people. Just like you. Just like me. Here we are!

I lope through the day. Dragging my left foot behind me. My cock used to swell to ridiculous proportions. Now it looks like a shriveled worm. I need pills to get a hard-on. 

So it goes, says Mr. Vonnegut.

Are we on the edge of World War III?

Sure feels like it.

Every day.

Every nanosecond.

Does Amerika need a President? Does the planet need an Amerikan President? Feels too dangerous. The Cosmos is a dangerous place. Nightmares are electronic. What is real? What is reality? More or less is left behind. We build our lives out of cosmic dust. We orbit the Sun.

The wobble of a Sun can be observed from great distances. If there is a looker… a Seer. Someone must look. Someone must give a damn. Possess a curiosity. 

Peepholes into Space.

The city is a giant horseshoe crab next to the sea. Its metal retractable shell protects inhabitants from typhoons and sea surges. I operate the machine. I decide when to deploy the shell. It is a great responsibility. I cannot be wrong. Not with 88,888 human lives at stake. Yes. We are a small city. All has become so after the Event.

This could be its own novel.

A novel within a novel.

If I had the temerity. Do I? Hard to say at the moment. Joaquin Phoenix just won a Golden Globe for his performance in The Joker. Is this a performance? Of course it is. Am I tickled from eating oysters? Possibly.

My hand lotion feels & smells like Elmer’s glue.

I love you.

Why are you so distant?

So far away?

Orgasm as prolonged as possible. We lay on our sides. Breathing. Your thigh slung over my hip.

Memory gets in the way of progress. She salts it and gives me a suck. I am nineteen. Blowing sperm into her mouth. I feel her palm spread on my right buttock. I am standing. My jeans bunched up at my ankles. Pretty soon it is her turn. Skirt hiked up. Panty crotch pushed aside. She makes the low guttural groans of orgasm.

A plotted narrative is required.

Let’s move on.

I am here, in the night, under a sky. Everything is out there. Comets and asteroids. Intercontinental ballistic missiles. We are a mistake away from Armageddon. Perhaps closer than that. Everybody just says things. Punching nonsense into pocket machines. Posting as impostors. Pretenders. No human beings left. Ask Norbert Weiner. He wrote a book called The Human Use of Human Beings. Thomas Pynchon alerted me to this little masterpiece. Required reading for all automatons. Robot is a Czech word.

My back hurts. Bulging discs & herniated discs in my thoracic spine. I hope I can fuck again. Everything feels like the Beatles song “Yesterday.” I am here. Right now. Meditating my ass off. My hair is on fire. My nostrils inhale the Cosmos.

Easy tiger. A novel is a marathon. Long-distance love affair. You cannot have an American girlfriend and a European girlfriend. Yes you can. You just have to make sure you do not write about it in a notebook journal. Girlfriends read everything. Especially when you are at the tavern. 

Lightning strikes twice.

Sometimes thrice.

I am an idiot machine. A perfect storm. 

I make noise. A novel is a silent scream. Bursts of laughter. Awkward silences. I see through space and time. Pools of hydrogen gas. Gravity begins its work.

Where is everybody?


Fermi. You funny man.


This decade comes to an end in one hour and six minutes. Thank god. I am exhausted. All that pretending. All that working. All that pretending to work to please other people. A performance. I will tell the truth in the next decade. Nothing but the truth. So help me god. I want answers. I feel determined. This is a new feeling for me. Must be the Zeitgeist. Or something beyond the beyond. Three minutes before the hour. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. 10:57pm. Getting there.

The plastic Lego pieces are far too many. Will the kid ever put the machine together? It is a spacetime machine. I hope it gets him where he wants to go. Deserves it. A determined kid. The bigger kid wants to stay up until midnight. Why? He says everybody is doing it. Says it is a tradition. So what? I want to go to sleep. I want to dream. This piece keeps getting longer and longer. Might be a novel. Might be the Kraken.

Can you imagine the dead calm of the Great South Bay? I can. The murky water. The clam boat. Turbulent black clouds over Fire Island. I must flee. East or West? Towers of a metropolis loom on the horizon. A UFO hovers over the Empire State Building. Using the Zeppelin docking port.

This book must show an agitated consciousness. An agitated state of mind. An agitated being. People are interacting. Everywhere. Always. Until there are no people. What then? Who will write the novels? We must prepare the machines. They must be ready.

I need people to say things to me. Talk. You know. Conversation. Dialogue. Monologue. Anything. Anything to get this machine buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz out of my ears. 

I believe in you. Whoever you are. Things keep getting weirder by the hour. I keep looking out the window. Stir of ink black tree branches. Did the Con Edison guy come in the morning to read the meter? Was that him buzzing the buzzer? He sure comes early. Early in the morning. Early in the year. Everybody wants electric. I keep fighting with my wife over how to raise the kids. Is there a right way? Do people get it right? 

Are we on TV? This might be the craziest novel in the history of Amerika. Might not be a novel. Might be. Is. Must be. Ess Muss Sein. K. and I lay naked on a bed in a rented room on the edge of Prague. We are good friends. We fuck like lovers. I almost make her come. Now, the stakes are higher. Everything is on the line. I am a writer. Sentences and words keep piling and piling on. Are we getting anywhere? Should we be getting somewhere? What are your expectations? Do you have any expectations? Do we surrender yet? Nah. I like this. We can go on forever.

Pages and pages and pages of manuscript in electronic form. What does it really mean, if anything? We scroll through each other’s consciousness. Perhaps too quickly. I remember your eyes. Blue eyes. I remember your eyes. Hazel eyes. I remember forgetting everything I ever remembered. And then waking up, surprised & ecstatic: I remember everything!

I remember the law. I remember the way it kicked my ass. Killed my friends. A machinist must keep going. Running on empty. Whatever the cost. Sell all your books. Keep writing. Ink. Spiral notebooks are sanctuaries. The library is a cathedral. The solitude of a coffeeshop. 

Yeah well yeah, I’m tired. Writing a novel is no joke. So why am I laughing? I have no choice. Spontaneous bursts of laughter. Try it, if your System allows it. Of course, it is unpredictable.

Started reading Gaddis. You ever read Gaddis? JR is a weird book. Starting to think I might like it. A machinist needs a friend. A machinist friend. Even from Farmingdale. Or Levittown. Or Patchogue. Language accumulates. Reaches a bursting point. Spit it out. Talk. Speak. Utter.

Ink is cheap. Blood is not.

Yes well yes, now what? Is Pompeo the Secretary of State? Believe so. Supposed to travel to Ukraine. Postponed as I understand. Looks forward to his visit, if it ever happens. Wait & see.

International affairs are my forte. As you can probably imagine. I am a novelist. I know almost everything. Mystery, however, is important. Intrigue. The unknown unknowns. Etcetera. I once served President Václav Havel as an elevator operator. The elevator was malfunctioning. Havel took the stairs. I remember Peter Sellers in the film Being There. I remember the novel.

The exoplanet K2-18b is a sub-Neptune planet to keep your strongest eyeball on. Astronomers detect water vapor and clouds on this small planet orbiting a nearby M3-dwarf star at a distance placing it “firmly” in the habitable zone. The planet is 124 light-years away from earth. Orbiting a sun every 33 days.

A light-year is almost six trillion miles.

Closer to earth is Proxima Centauri-b. At 4.2 light-years away, it is the closest exoplanet to earth. That is just 25 trillion miles away. It orbits a red dwarf star in a triple-star system. What is perhaps even more incredible is that the closest exoplanet orbits a sun in the habitable zone.

Are you following the footsteps of the ox?

There is a Zen chant:

The whole Universe is an ocean
of dazzling light,
And on it dance the waves of
life and death.


A Machinist I am. I am expected to know everything. Absurd I know. It cannot be any other way. Somebody must do it. Namely: Me. The planet is incorporated. It is me against us. Who is on your team? Are you sure? Time is clairvoyant. Space is murky. Primeval. I try to recharge the charger. Electricity is faster than cash. Nobody gets paid. Except for the Titans at Titanpointe. Sleep, restless sleepwalker. Sleep. You are a computer. You are a cyborg. You are a human being.

I shall remain nameless. Suits me. The namelessness. Perhaps a number is in order. N47. Or something along those lines. We like numbers. The people of the corporation. Z49. The sky is the limit. Do you like hanky panky? People often do. Never get enough. There are special rooms for dreams & nightmares. Anechoic chambers in the great state of Minnesota. Minnesota is an odd state of mind. Not unlike Indiana. California. Utah. The sky is the fucking limit.

We are machine people. Hurtling towards the next Big Thing. Smaller and smaller things. Anything. Scrap metal. Plastic bags. Electronics. Six-pin connectors. Eight-pin connectors. Am I connected? You know how it is. That feelingless feeling. Creeps up on you at the shopping mall. The agora. The supermarket. Pushing a shopping cart across a boiling asphalt parking lot. Yes. You know. Asteroids are grazing the atmosphere. What a perfect O2 bubble. Until it Pops. Explodes. Annihilates.

A machinist cannot speak. A machinist only writes code. You, on the other hand, possess the gift of talk. People say the incredible. Things like Hi Bob. Every Robert in the country is at risk of being called Bob. It is a curious name. A very curious name. Tom Dick and Harry is also a perfect trinity. Where do people get such names? A book of names? I like paragraphs. A man named James said I fail to teach the paragraph. So be it, James. Cast your lure into the breakers at Montauk for striped-bass. Perhaps you get a bite.

I am obsessed with another sea creature. The Kraken. Tentacles in everything we say and do. The Electric Kraken … far deadlier than electric eels. Yes yes. I began to begin at the beginning of the millennium. Before that I was a boy and a girl … I am not sure. Uncertainty is my specialty. I swim in existence as a tadpole in a methane sea under the frozen crust of Saturn’s big moon Titan. The cilia of a cell are like tentacles. I feel everything. The true locomotion of a human being is impossible to describe.

There is the backward-and-forward motion of fucking. Buttocks are muscle engines. Fully engaged. All systems go. Zoë was a perfect fit for Zig. There are Others, of course. Spacetime keeps spiraling. Twists & turns of human flesh. Love affairs in the dragonfire ruins of medieval castles. Gothic grunts & fucks. Heretofore I have remained anonymous. Your story intrigues me more, reader. Scholar of ancient manuscripts. Scrolls tied by serpent’s twine. Unroll your scrolls. Unspool. This text is such that it may break apart at any moment. But you already know that. Ergo the shakings hands. Beads of sweat. Ache in the pit of the stomach. Anxiety. Excitement.

This text folds into itself. Trapping the reader. Forever. In perpetuity. Infinity. Sit back. Relax. I am the co-pilot. This text is on auto-pilot. I wish Carol Maso author of Ava were here. She might know what to do. Where to land. Parachute on her back. I wish Beckett were here. Molloy. Malone. Murphy. This text is peculiar. I did not expect to name real people. André the Giant. René Goulet. The list is getting increasingly bizarre. Is this slipstream? Anna Kavan, are you listening? Ice? What about you Philip K. Dick? Is this getting beamed into your head? Phil?

The space between space is dark matter. So there, I solved it. A Theory of Everything. A novelist must offer no less. Otherwise she is a charlatan. Or he is a warlock. Or a jester. Or a fool. Keep going with all those Os. I had a girlfriend who called it the Big O. Remember? Remember who you are? We dissolve into bubbles. Every bubble is a Cosmos. Every big O pops. Into smaller and smaller Os. The petite O. Earlier I spoke of something. What was it? O…. I forget. I am a forgetter. Forget I ever remembered. Goodbye.

Hello. So much loneliness here. Surveillance capitalism. Capitalist totalitarianism. Where is an anarchist to turn? Deep into literature I suppose. Art. Chaos & disorder. Entropy. We are machine beings. Trying to wall off the internal combustions of the mind. Human emotions & thoughts & feelings. Spark plugs. Carburetors. Transmissions. Sprockets & gears. Exhaust pipes.

Hero. Are you a hero? Are you failing at it miserably? I am a hero. I will lead us Nowhere. Somebody has to do it. The Big Nowhere. Sparkles and glitters. A novelist like me comes along at the end and the beginning of a millennium. Buckle your jockstrap. Clasp your brassiere. Get ready to rocket through a wormhole into Space. Nah. Let’s just stay here on Earth. There is too much to see already. Why impregnate extraterrestrials?

Storytelling is an ancient trick. People sit around campfires of the dead. Looking up at a black firmament of twinkling stars. Now and again, an asteroid crashes through the atmosphere. Somebody holds up a gnarled stick, and dares to speak: “I am Zig.”

Just let your beard grow. People will believe everything you say. If they call you a charlatan, say thanks. I like mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I feel a Harlem breeze on the East River. Things get real. December is here. Tugboats are fighting the current. The Hell Gate Bridge is a neo-Gothic railroad bridge designed by Gustav Lindenthal, a civil engineer born in Brünn (Czechs call it Brno) in 1850 during the Austrian Empire. Emigrated to Amerika in 1874. Impress your friends.

Brush your teeth. Go to sleep. Floss. Why don’t kids listen? Nobody listens to the old man. The machines are taking over. Washing the human brain. Kids watch kids watch kids playing Minecraft Dungeons.

Enough is enough. This is my last stand. I will fight the Kraken. I am a harpooneer. I will stand on the bow of the ship. The fender of a Volkswagen Beetle. Whatever it takes. Strike the Kraken!