The Future Part 1

One of the best things about the apocalypse is that no one died and people even kept being born afterwards:

I am bored. So bored I check the weather to see what will happen. I don't see if I will be bored later, I don't know how to find that out.

People are different now. These days, people have sex with robots and live off their cum. This is better than the exchange of sex for money in some ways but not in others.

There is a lot to consider.

What little things come from big things?

There is the sea and then there are ceilings.
The larger reflects the sky, the littler ones are the sky reflected
thrown back up in little waves: smooth, solid light made white planes.

There are grapes and there is grappling.
Stone fruit crumble off the rapine's crag:  arm-to-arm, neck-in-neck, face-to-face,
a struggle to mouth grape, mount the guardrail, and surmount
the archaic rubble, the garbled reward:
death grip in the garbage garden.

There is kind and there is kindling.
Kind is a kind of kind already and kindling is a sub-kind of kind.
This is one of those infinite relationships, numbers and in-between numbers, on the one hand--
--on the other hand, all things in time can truly be said to exist simultaneously:
If, by the time we could count all the animals old ones don’t die out and new ones are born (thus making the living an infinite number in time),
perhaps kind and kindling aren’t related at all.

There are ears and there are earrings.
A selfish reproduction, aimed at enhancing
the hear-and-remain-unseen (but vain) ear’s appearance.
Without their offspring, ears are forgettable. Many earrings
die before they mature into ears, as they are born vain--and prescient.

There is kind and there is kindling.
Kind breeds the kindling of friendship and love.

There are stars and there are starlings for reasons that will become completely obvious, so obvious that this relationship forms the proof of why obvious is always the same size, either hermaphroditic or thought to emerge spontaneously (enigmatically).

There are years and there are yearlings.
Years come in horses and yearlings are year-old horses.
One is one smaller.
Picture two ones: the smaller one is still one.

There are motes and there are motions,
each hung in the mane "elemental," a halo.
Motes sparkle on the mantle, never monotonous,
but intoning the micro-maneuvers of momentary inter-light lapses,
slopping up stillness the slob, elemental.

There are toys and there are toilets.
Stella, étoile is the French word for star and toilette
is the French word for what she wears on her play date.

Dressed to the nines (the Plutos, indeed),
she flushes away her childhood, flashing in orbit
a playful display of her décolleté—

--there are cocks and there are coquettes.
While one begets the other, they are always the same
size in relation to one another because before dawn,
it is too dark to see a coquette.
And before the crow, they are no cocks.
In the light of the rising sun, cocks and coquettes
come to know one another. Crepuscular confusion
leads them to ask these questions of which one came first,
although of course.

There are marks and there are marches.
One passes through the next and the last, through the other, like names twirling on a marquee, with a certain click, at a certain
clip, sliced one flat and the next perpindic--
the shape of planes intersecting in space
like a sky if there were no Earth or sky--

There are couples and there are couplets. Picture two twos: the smaller ones are still twos. 

New Concepts in Porn

for A.W. 

1. Two naked men are standing underneath opposite hoops on a basketball court. They are both masturbating. The camera cuts between close-ups of their respective eyes and hands. Because the hands are filmed from various angles, eventually, it becomes completely unclear whose are whose.  Both men's faces are shown in full as they passionately ejaculate in concert. The film ends with a long shot of both of the men relaxed, smiling at each other bashfully, wiping themselves off with their hands.


2. In a fluorescent-lit, linoleum-floored basement ('rec room'), two short-circuit televisions face one another on either side of a ping pong (read: beer pong) table. Each screen shows a close-up of a man masturbating. The viewer is meant to presume that just beyond the edges of the frame, there are two men standing in opposite doorways, facing away from each other (perhaps this is implied by the film's title, which might be "Ass to Ass Too"). Left open is the tantalizing possibility that it is actually the same person on both screens (i.e. the masturbating viewer).

3. A naked man stands in the center of a football or soccer field masturbating. An airplane or helicopter flies directly over the field and one of the passengers, who is sitting in a window seat but not looking down, is also masturbating. The viewer is invited to imagine that somewhere around the 50-yard line (or its soccer equivalent), there is another man 40 feet underground or above ground, a miner or a businessman, who is also masturbating.


Finally, a lonely astronaut is masturbating in outer space.

Hot Dog Poem

Hot dog: this is a series of sketches I still don't know what to do with

1

   Eating a hot dog with no underwear on: lots of little tongues
            coming off my tongue with  little tongues coming off of the tongues of their tongues,

            tongue-tied round hot dogs coming off my hot dog. 

“I ate a hot dog and then I sat on it," I said with one end of a hot dog in my ear 
            and one end in my  mouth.

Meanwhile, empirically,  hypotheses bely on the one hand
             two-bun-one-hot dog-nihilism, and on the other hand,
             two-hot dog-one bun idealism (practically mysticism),

So all-in-one I have found that the hot dog is one and the one

                            in my mouth wrapped in my tongue. Full of ideas,
                            my mouth. 

2

Hotly anticipated, the hot dog emerges

in a bun, my skin burning with

burning questions but last night, I discovered

that all this time, I have been IM-ing with a hot dog

“I didn’t realize that you were a hot dog.”

“This is a mistake.”

Hot dog: I keep forgetting that you’re a hot dog.

Tongue: Stop playing these games with me.

I closed my eyes, but it was all still there,

on the other side of the screen, a screen for

what?, my screen name—one side my eyes shut—

a hot dog sitting there with no underwear on

Why are you doing this?

I am echoing your sentiments, I am a hot dog

Heartworming tales, hot dog

Hot dog, you’re cold, you give my tongue worms

Hot dog, elaborate: I keep forgetting that you are a hot dog

I hope the hot dog was wearing a condom when I sat there, gagging on ignorance and pig intestines in porridge: hot dog, elaborated

Questions:

How do you spell hot dog, hotdog or hot dog

aborted orthographies, post-abortion hot dog

post-hot dog abortion

Tensions

Hot dog: I don’t know what you’re talking about

Tongue: I don’t know what you’re talking about

I alone am a hot dog, semantics

Alone, IM-ing with a hot dog

3

The loneliness. Feats of loneliness at a feast of loneliness trudging the streets of loneliness up to my room, lonely, look at the screen, out the window only to find that I’ve been IM-ing with a hot dog

All hot dog, one solid thing, arms, thighs, cheeks, sides, and insides, in little windows lit up a building one entire block seen from above. When I close my eyes it’s all there still, little letters lit up in little letters lit up in little letters, some of little like ‘k’ ‘c’ ‘u’

Hot dog city, a body, solid, a speck in the specter of fractilization made vast in a spectrum spanning two specks in discrete locations IMing a solid, discrete, and vast conversation—

made of all these little letters like ‘k’ ‘c’ ‘u’ like little lights on the sides

of a building block of a block of a vast hot dog city with windows lit up in little letters we lit little letters discrete, specks…

bolonka :(

Nadia

and then when i lay

in bolonka's plush carpet

not woven by bolonka

but by attendants to bolonka

and felt my girth enveloped

by the fur it was supposed to

saddle, suddenly, there, bolonka

with lucid eyes approached me

through cast-off follicles, pawed

at my scapula, drew me from

my breath, and departing my

terminal body i gasped to see

my cells dancing, flax and cilia

waxing and woven

Bela

Noble bolonka,
Fit for the poor court of
Homely malaise,
Earned longeur worn long-eared, droopily, her silks 
Anointed with sprays 
Of onion in corn oil, eyes
Kohled in brown tears,
Pout bearded brown on white, her own ermine
Heroine on the crest,
She, the shield against
Cracked linoleum (stained with her Highness's self-same excreta) erected, a
Panting monument--
Blameless of shame :(

Pants

Underwater, all pants are sea pants, tight swaths of seaweed stretched over all legs. Underwater, all creatures wear pants and most fish either have legs or are legs, even the Hand Fish.

Pants can get shorter and shorter, and then they are shorts. Shortier, shortier, you're on another shore: underpants. Underpants aren't pants, just like a hole in the ground isn't a pepper. While a hat does not a head make (unlike a wig or a scarf/unless it's a helmet) underpants are a genital. In general, pants are legs.

Sea legs come from a little bone in your ear that is too used to the sea. They are really ear bone legs.

Air legs lag after jets, drawing coral.

When we land, legs grow hands and fish around for their keys. Here we are in the Keys. Underwater here, our legs can spawn leggings.

Ilya,

Have you seen the most beautiful woman?

Her bull brow, her hooved sway

her breast hover, sunward faced

grazing the grasstops, lowing

deep and far valleys around her

Downward, her gaze

soaks the flower of

grace that slowly,

for you, she masticates