Looking us in to us

''GCRT J1745-3009 will cause a stampede of further observations,'' Shri Kulkarni and Sterl Phinney of the California Institute of Technology wrote in a understated manuscript to-be thatHyman plus colleagues were discovered studying aberrant observations made by the National Science Foundation's Very Large Array radio telescope in bonny New Mexico—though perhaps more important is a distinct possibility the big radio heavens contain other fast radio transients (which, in anticipation of a trove of discoveries, we nickname 'burpers')[and so-on] for as we know infinity has to fit somewhere, and where else but in all things, manifesting when you least expect them to? Truly, the privations of celestial bodies are only now being divined.

finger in the light socket, she told me ... how she coveting peak experinces, like drugs coming on ... I flicked the needle; the cat jumped. Spirits. Eyes dilated, it looks around frantically, small electric bolts sending its tensed body into the air; we open ourselves up. Feel the presence. The needle, sharp and weeping a drip of seminal fluid, the skin. How elastic it is ... resists the invasion ... slow plunge of 48ccs. Disturbing white noise music hisses us into submission; no thought is possible anymore. Pictures explode inoperable to words. The spirit resists its own completion; the awareness of its intent purports itself to places wearing the death robe, as far as the ego is concerned. The cymbals rattled our mouth roofs; today I found one in the street, I wanted to tell ... who? Myself. I’m listening, the memory betrays me.
Can I have more: oh I shouldn’t. It’s free. I can’t/what’s stopping you?
Tabla music, the eternal destination breaks the house of the intrepid adventurer in two, the collision of purpose plays us, thoughts as fingers moving faster than the eyes perceive, the arithmetic of beats steam-roll measures. Have all you want. Which sounded good, until dawn arrived, and with it, work. The frequency of times wasted eschew the times embraced; she of nearly beautiful-girlfriend status enrolls in the early fight to the airport for jazz fest; I gather my construction tools for worse of better. It begins to rain. I realize—everywhere we trundle our problems, they multiply. Asleep while awake, I walk into walls of my making, wondering how I can charge for this malfeance; what’s it possibly worth an hour? The self hate of doing little to tangibly vector the world for peace add universal love weight of which crumples me, leavces little room for debate. The sublimity scars those who see it, better to remain blind to wisdom which unravels you/or so the popular culture why do they run the show whould have us believe. Like a bad drunk at the jukebox in a run down Irish bar, we swipe the airwaves from larger versions of ourselves, and brand our lives with the music of oblong spheres, grinding against each other. And that’s when I remember the light well, filled with the remnants of planes with spilling smoke from multiple wound out engines’ gallant flameouts as they spiral down. That light well.... symphony of high acronym in multitasking action. I stuff my hand into its shallow darkness, and feel around. sure enough, three little parcels. I have failed and passed the test, as traps arrest those it needs to. Quite ominously, one appears to be gel acid, one is a small rock of ice or is it?+ and opposite it, folded onto the archetype origami or glossy magazine wrecktangle, is ? A ubiquitous white power ... would get you high (supposedly) but how? I think of mild mannered milk mothers, who dose themselves with increasingly levels of arsenic, to level the playing fields; or false tears and french fires from overactive deep fries.
esty hyperactive rats have chewed the Victorian parlor door bottom to white lead bits; I set the racy high tech electrocution traps with peanut butter, and left them off, to lure the wary into placidity’s sake; the government would apportion ‘black’ funds to study this process. I cut into the small rock portioned to test this very moment and finding only minimal guilt or fate snorted proudly or profundi/did I say that? Righteously reading the romantic riot act to hands and knees cleaning the toilet Is This Your Passion I old school tore through a half lifetime of minor menial tasks, playing outdated seventies power bands as if I had any choice in the matter on the one radio station the sub basement of providence provided. MacFrankZappa piano solo blow up doll stripped to underwear on the drums sweating profusely, scrubbing overpriced marble of paint spills lacquered by amped up workers frayed on this very substance, working fifteen hours straight on did you notice Styrofoam cheap coffee. Jeeze/how easy I it to see the folly of working straight when it concerns things you don’t care about? The chop saw lusted after my fingers, full with blood. Zappa clay-mation Baby Snakes to mind. Have you seen that shit?! Jesus Christ /the semi sister cats sloped in. They yodeled ballocks and bloody murder as the tornado tsunami shop vacuum son of Lucifer came on. But who wouldn’t/a major sonic disaster/turn that fucking thing off~the fresh greens salad has slimy-wilted in the plastic stay breezy fresh bin—even the imported balsamic won’t cover its gaminess, but I forge on. Oh blessed are the sufferers, racking themselves with relishingly gregarious supple branches. The clock spins to five, and I slice into the ever-diminishing rock again, enthusiastically pursuing the paragon of type A personality.


That, and the insane blatancy of perfume names strikes me dumb. Have you smelled this shit?! Here, fold this back. Look at the athlete on the picture ... what’s it called? What’s it remind you of? Deodorant. Yea. Hence it’s name, Adrenaline. Look, that’s one of fifty I ripped from a glossy, high priced magazine. They’re serious about this shit! Coca cola bought out the local organic juice company, the auto concerns dismantled LA’s pubic transit system, the government’s owned by the legal system its corporations put in place, add the narcissistic, the religious fanatic, the power hungry, the greed-wracked, the petty, and the infantile burgeoning into frightened pubic officials at an ever-increasing rate. This country is going to the god damn dogs, before it fully arose to challenge that archetypical fate. Nobody really knows what to do with freedom. It’s a cycle of getting off one boar racing through the forest, and mounting another headed the other way.
The administration of government is sculptured for robots, not visionaries. Common people are clearly afraid of geniuses; why else would women be so suppressed in this culture, to mention a sliver of the world? The glacial pace of people’s ability to change their dogged moral and emotional codes is historically, only altered by wars and temporal economic blooms. You for instance, are worthless. You’re right; I have ideas at such an accelerated rate, it’s impossible to pit them against each other, let alone put any into effect to the extent of satisfying myself they’ve been deeply considered, or functionally probed. No wonder acid’s too much for you.