Welcome to the word-colonies. Can’t we move beyond this
brazen earthquake I wanted to ride toward a more romantic
sonnet full of good advice and complex rubber plotbots? Death
trusts no one, especially Murder Girl, who doesn’t even know
noir when she sees it. Then I snoozed bluely on the couch
and listened to the mist hit the windowpane. [Zero.] Zero is
at the lab and I just ordered take-out, which is usually about
$10. The squirrelbots are coming unhinged. They screw me
over to the creek full of broken numbers until—I AM LOST.
No unencumbered clodhopper could stomach such brazen limbo.
I meant the glory of these clouds, this essay on clouds, the glory of
holding forth under the soullessness, our overlapping guests, un
hinged mallrats with red gills. I have Friday look at my request.
If you ask to be a member, you cannot be a member. Help me, Zero!
