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!

1 (a movement)
To be god(s)-forsaken: to sense divinity, to stumble upon its signs (to have at least that one, memorable time, been a sign of divinity), but to have pathways elude you.

The outsider mystics, their painstakingly codified systems of (non-)knowledge found sometimes in both basements and attics, both living rooms and tombs: in all of their splendour and candour, in all their wealth, they are all predicated on a gliding, veil-piercing movement.

To know the movement (is to know that the veils are infinite). To partake in raptures, in instantaneous instants of being-taken, or being-wave-swept. To have mastered the technique of a burning point whose scintillations inaugurate paradox: the pendulous continuum; to live through methods of sense derangement and to lick the funkiest underbellies.

Never, however, to be invited onto the flights of ever-penultimate fancy about the likes of which you read in codices, in grimoires, in encrypted files.

In other words, to suffer through a god(s)-forsaken mode of environing: to be unable – when a glide occurs and a power is seduced into being-experienced – to harness that power, and to be incapable of fuelling with that power a mythopoeic (en)act(ment).

To choke on a ghost.

2 (wastelands)
To question whether they should have harnessed it and put it to work rather than tremble.

To remember that they have all remembered that ecstasy is in the gap, or is the gap – whatever one feels upon inserting one’s carnality into an other orifice – even if they would never admit the accuracy of ambiguity.

Iconophilia: to subvert encryption by loving the cipher; or by destroying the crypt instead of opening the catacombs of the alphabet. To be without a crypt, without a tombstone: to no longer be banished into absence and separated from a(n after)life of disintegration, dispersal, alien nutrition.

A wasteland may be a realm in decay, plagued by the incompetent rule of a limping king. In spite of that, a different wasteland: to squander is to sanctify. To be holy while being trash, intoxicated and meditating atop a pile of corpses. “I’m a poison worm, I thrive on poison.”1

To contemplate is to designate a temple space: a place for contemplation. To contemplate a system is to effect a (hypo)stasis. There are subsystems contained within metasystems which are simultaneously subsystems of other metasystems, but to suppose a system is to vivisect a preselected section of something not larger, but simply faster – to cut off a stem and proclaim it dead even as it sprouts new leaves, to ignore the fact that everything glitches.

To glide is to glitch. To fall off the map, but onto what territory?

Demons have been put inside the body of flesh, of earth, of all the elements. Angels are posited on the outside of these bodies. To move past these hypostases: towards non-spatial motion: towards emotion. To go neither demonward nor angelwards. To go awkward: in the wrong direction.

To collapse onto yourself is to receive the gift of the rift. Into the outer they have carved the inner, so that the inner seems to be inside, or in the middle of the world. Or: the map shows an exterior, an interior, and something in between, a middle realm: skin, membrane, the media realm.

Koanic query: if there is a middle realm and an interior, which one is more in the middle?

To collapse onto yourself is to receive the gift of the rift, the rift being the gap through which viral movements pass, and thus through which perpetuation occurs.

“Haunted by the idea of knowing what the key to the mystery is, a man becomes a reader of detective novels.”2 “Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.”3 To write is to send letters from the bone prison of written word.

Quest: to perpetuate the possibility of sainthood in a god(s)-forsaken wasteland.

3 (to follow your sound tracks)
To grieve for reverberation in architecture, to fear its death in lived experience: to track tracks for tracks’ sake is paramount and tantamount to attending to voices in decay. To hear is not to listen, or are you always tricked?

Heteroglossia: those who voice themselves through you are many, but this can still be orthodox, which is to say homogeneous; all hail the spine spire. Heterodoxy: those who voice themselves through you are many, and they bring with them heterogeneity; are you sure there’s only one tooth per socket in those velvet, violet gums of yours? Alternatively, you may trace the curvature of a previously unknown rib.

To, upon speaking, scrape your tongue on the bristled multitudes that populate you. To recognize that you are a medium, a mediating body, a rift elemental. To reverberate is to be made of multiple echoes.

And yet, those (and many other) things: to unfurl like a budding fern, that is to say to reveal nothing but the unfurling, the movement; to trust that you have received a message in (y)our sleep – to challenge your world to warrant such trust.

If to abandon transcendence is to assume it has already been achieved, then to undertake katabasis is to exit existence. Existence: a fortress of hypostatic transcendence, an error which no longer wants to err. The bone prison.

Regardless, to pursue transverberation and attain the state of grace alongside which “the heart receives, it knows not how or whence, a blow as from a fiery dart.”4

To sustain transverberation is to be pierced through (a shiver is sent down the spine spire, a quake shakes the ouroboric ribcage). Subsystems within metasystems within subsystems within metasystems ad nauseam; a hypostatic body of echoes transverberates itself, inserts itself into an other orifice.

Labyrinthine metamorphosis: to glide is to glitch is to be pierced in a veil-piercing movement, which is not to say that it is simply you who are the veil. To say so would be to merely homogenise.

A machine carries on carving insides into outsides, and you cannot leave the machine without remaining inside the opposition of in and out that is now carved inside you. It is of no use to exit into or enter out of; the machine is still in order, powered by the ugliest myth. Gone, went to the other shore, or are you still swimming? Were you ever not swimming? Thus, to abscond (is often to sound like the reverberating decay of a high-pitched chime).


To have ventured with the following companions:
Georges Bataille2 (a sorcerer’s apprentice),
Bruno Schulz (a mythopoet extraordinaire),
T.S. Eliot3 (a Knight of the Round Table),
Michael Kirkbride (a loremaster),
Ramprasad Sen1 (a goddess’ poet),
Timothy Morton (a dark ecologist),
Jean Baudrillard (a shadow dancer),
R. Murray Schafer (an ear-cleaner),
Hildegard Westerkamp (a soundwalker),
Saint Teresa of Ávila4 (a heart-pierced lover),
Dorothea Tanning (a sleepy alchemist),
Julia Kristeva (an investigator into the nature of milk skin).

Paweł Markiewicz is author of poesy as well as of thinkful flash fiction and essays. Pawel was winner of a 2019 poetry competition in Ybbs, Austria, winning second place.


I am standing before a cute mirror, therethrough looking, and I see there Prometheus, his torches with fires, a weird-like ash, a poetical comet as well as the words >youthhood of studies< in a golden frame. I want currently to frame my thoughts barely (smell but excellent!). Prometheus is a handler of the politics of golden habits. He epitomizes the politics for the sake of the neediest. His three torches denote three sorts of human, namely the needy (and the homeless), the old and ill (and the captives and freedmen as forensic diseased (themis-like = themis-soulswards). These squads of people should be special, provided by each country. All and sundry ill, indigent and old would have a claim to the lump of money of EUR 2020 net per month. The sums correspond a year, thus in year 2021 the money will obtain EUR 2021. It should become a sacred duty of each land. The legislation, that is able to regulate this, would be called a golden law. Forwhy does it seem to be so divine? The torches withal flames are however untouchable (Stop! Danger. Do not touch!). One shall never bicker with the fire. Prometheus carries with oneself a horseshoe (with the number 50, so 50 Euro as necessary wage floor and statutory minimum wage per hour of work. Thus it must rule in each land). The other politics, a contrario too, is called the politics of charm-like ashes.

Herein any perpetual principles are not directed, one can touch and pug jet the ash (with a dreamy water from dream-like starlet from muses such a metaphor of the being of philosophy). A perfect politician must become the man. The tender-blissful human-becoming of the statesman eminently fulfills four kinds of ways, to wit:

1. Devout thinker – man – politician of goodliness

2. Savant – human – politician of generosity – at me it has happened during my study. I would be a good polly (Australian English)

3. Philosopher – person – pollie (New Zealand English) of atrabiliousness. I would be an aspirant of the ontology after my exam in juridical philosophy.

4. Poet – individual (mensch in Yiddish) – politico of good-heartedness

It is the meekest (the most blissfully, the most propitiously) and the most Apollonianly to become a poet. The poet-like politician would be the best contender. My first poesy were poems, namely: the sorrowful, which brung me a comet 1998, once many a comet dust prettified thereof my pneuma with rain of mays a of dreamy heavenly mermaidling.

My lovely houndlet-doggy as PRECEPTOR teaching:

terethrough = thereby

weird-like = charm-like

youthhood = adolescence

forwhy = why

withal = with

goodliness = grace

atrabiliousness = melancholy