Managers and their girlfriends

At this time I would like to invite you to allow me to assume remote decisioning for all voluntary muscular tissue functionality as well as some limited cerebral tasks that I only ask about as a courtesy with the knowledge that you have already agreed to full remote tissue decisioning as a condition of member privileges such as the freedom to charge for and earn from your labor, to enjoy full access to Filter of Loathing, W.A.S.T.E. certificate services, and most official convo platforms.

Hello?

At this time I would like to invite you to allow me to assume remote decisioning for all voluntary muscular tissue functionality as well as some limited cerebral tasks that I only ask about as a courtesy with the knowledge that you have already agreed to full remote tissue decisioning as a condition of member privileges such as the freedom to charge for and earn from your labor, to enjoy full access to Filter of Loathing, W.A.S.T.E. certificate services, and most official convo platforms.

Fine... wow! You don't waste time. I tried that already though so why not...

Please keep your eyes and thoughts away from the cursor, sir. It will be just a moment longer.

I feel a little violated.

You are not violated sir, this is a routine check to help support your help ticket alert. Oops-- sorry.

I didn't need that finger haha. Or the comma splice! Did I do that?

Ok, sir you can reinstall eye contact and tissue decisioning after toggling the puppy icon. I have determined that your issue was caused mostly by self-pity and inability to accept change. Several times when I attempted to get near the dishwasher and the really bad mess in your kitchen, I could barely hold on because the Filter has worn so thin. This is your doing sir, and I must remind you that the filter cannot be replaced easily. Any further attacks on MPS property, even with sarcasm or parody, will result in consequences that will be automatic. No confirmation number or supervisor will be able to help you with that. MPS will assume management of your entire Recreation and Other discretionary fund and commence allocation of all personal property and savings by subscription only, rates to be determined by most recent W.A.S.T.E. rating and discretion of chank-level managers and their girlfriends.

She's gone; I'm her

I stood up to pee and my hair fell across my face the way my old dance teacher's hair fell across her face when she walked, pulling up on her tights like skirts though mud, letting her hair go in her face, walking without trying to cover up pain of walking, disgust escaping through a grimace that used to indicate a pleasant realization and now indicates a realization of unpleasantness. I was surprised to see that the tank had filled up on its own. The top was off so when I flushed it again I could see that it was filling as well without the use of a screwdriver, yet I kept thinking about Marcia, how she could do any combination backwards but could not or would not lose her butt. Modern for her seemed to be a big fuck you to the ballerinas who yanked their bodies like naked chickens. Marcia was going to take charge of space and move through space on Maricia's terms and show Marcia's standard of beauty or at last how a woman can deal with this particular space and time and how you are going to allow her to do it and stay quiet and witness Marcia, that there is a Marcia, and that she is moving in a space you share yet do not share because she is owning this space and you are letting her be the authority and the user of it and how for both of you that is working fine so why not keep doing this. Then her dance was over and no one is aware of sharing anything and she has to get from the stage to the bathroom just physically, not metaphysically or as a story or symbol or communique, or stop, just stop everything because being able to get from point A to point B is a minimum requirement for what's ok with Marcia and the spaces around her.

Support: BROKEN

Maybe 10 minutes? an hour after the building collapsed I was foggy but conscious that I needed to get something done, and I was having a lot of trouble because I kept getting blocked from these outside-- they were beams I guess, one just a few inches above my forehead so I couldn't lift enough to see my feet, which also seemed to be encumbered among some wobbly metal pipes, like I knew I had paid for the software but I never really received any tangible version of it and now, of course, when I needed it after a crash, even after spending all morning locating the the little green card with the product key and finding the correct version and country and division of the company with the sign-on that I still might have the password to saved in the browser I used to use, and getting in that way, and typing the 16 numbers into the fields and retyping them after a couple of errors, getting the message, "What you have entered is not a product key." I thought I could turn onto my side, slip out onto what I was hoping based on echo and coolness was the concrete slab behind me, but I felt at that point that I had probably been seriously wounded in my side somewhere or at least that it hurt far too much to try a solution that might only make matters worse. I even got through to a number of "support" personnel who sung, each in turn, the delights of being able to help me and promised that we would work together to find a solution to my issue even though I felt deeply that this issue was not mine, that I must assert that, that I'd kept my part of the bargain; I'd found my goddamn green plastic card that would survive much longer than I will on this planet and typed the numbers correctly into the fields. This was my property that I had paid for, and I had never requested that it be held securely for me, so securely that I would certainly have to shell out more money either for a complete replacement, which would be completely redesigned for the sake of redesign with no regard whatsoever to the hours I had spent learning and customizing the old design to my preferences, or at least to the point where I could actually read documents sent to me by my workplace without having to either enter symbols or  swear oaths or divulge private and vulnerable aspects of my identity, or for a superior level of "support" that would go beyond the celebration of support offered without support actually having been received.

Circle of caring

So completely sober, or as sober as i ever am, i started this project where i auto-stim a psychedelic journey from which i can learn.

I'd been reading wacky but reasonable versions of the plant-induced variety with accompanying sides of terror and physical revulsion.

But why? All of that only goes to show that the brain is perfectly capable of doing that all on its own, and that it may actually be always doing that anyway without our ever noticing.

So I surrendered to the colors and shadow anyone might notice with their eyes closed or partially rolled back into the head, relaxing.

The trip reports had mentioned being carried along on a current that you can't stop. I thought of the swollen stream rushing past right outside my door and what it would be like to be on it.

Distracting thoughts for me, a ruminator, don't have to be chased down, and my morbid imagination is not afraid of and indeed occasionally produces scenes of carnage and destruction, as does any red blooded. So i was not afraid, but that did not happen. There was lucidity as in partial dreaming.

But then i remembered my own last experience with a bio-halucinogen: the very real sense of another presence, not a cartoon guide frog sitting on a stump, but something round that was just next to me and actually overlapping into my own head, so like my head was a Venn diagram, except both halves living and potentially aware of one another, at least i of it.

Now tho as i hung my head in frustration, wishing for the ego obliteration splinters of which were variously described as lighting, ants, fractured bisected perspectives, no instead my hand on my head became the hand of that thing. It was my left hand and the thing had been intersecting with my left brain.

The hand was familiar and maybe it was someone i knew who is dead and earlier, even before the experiment, i had been experimenting with prayer and reflecting on how it's different from talking to the dead, and whether or not talking to the dead was more dangerous than prayer. Which assumes more agency? etc.

The hand not only held my head while I wept but let me bury my face in it and felt my face as if it had not felt it for many years and wanted to remember. It's not like i never feel my own face.

Lately also i've been saying thanks to my previous self: "Thanks, past self," and really meaning it. I do something that will help out later like putting the groceries where I can find them again, and it's a pain in the ass while i am doing it but i feel like i need to say thanks to that person for going to the trouble because so often everything seems like a lot of goddamn trouble but sometimes i find the energy to do it anyway because i respect my future self that much at least or at least have the optimism to expect there to be a future self.




Dr. Donna Thong
"Doing my time on the Chang K. Chang Chank Drunk Tank Chain Gang."

Parti-colored tipis

shields devils heads are the lining at the base of a column
green sunset, rising black
we are embedded in the placenta or tongue
a house of wooden figures with rubber bands for knees
the one that used to run, heaped in a corner
a band of light, orbiting pure mercury
is the hand railing/ chair bumper
in a glum nursing scream home
you are no longer reasonable no matter the reason
let me go, I'll tell them you're keeping me
against your will, I know, they all say that.
As the gut churns, a heaving green turfscape
in a mist, slippry, odorous, and tipis. Calico
tipis with tip flags, lancers.



Ayre Fromme-Diaz

Tipis
Tipis at night with
Spotlights shining down on them by
Tipis hovering overhead:
Tipis shining lights on tipis



by Flaco Huevon

Black men's names bleeding into my white skin

I have to admit I have trouble making them out now
Not that I've forgotten but the ink has spread, what
happens to an old tattoo by a drunken spaniard at the
seaside, what's been repaired and pumped and let
slide; even keratoses or folliculitis comes up black

These guys among others were with me in parallel
Encountering intimately the secrets of genetic disparity
and delight, the fight, tho what we shared was losing
Losing lots of losses in a row that inspired meta-loss:
that's when men then seek the young not the departing



Love, Hoolie

More man tips

chinstraptail

chintie

gagtail

tailhelmet_side

Beavers had more agency

When we were in the pen, we and everyone who was born there stopped noticing getting shat upon over and over. And our nobler substances spilled on top of that. It didn't matter. Managing contact with the excretions of others is perhaps the core experience of all life forms. We became degraded ping-pong balls lolling atop a sticky heap of ego destruction. Our selves were the empty spheres of which we were aware, within which anything could be imagined and nothing could be directly experienced or executed except the wading in shit blood tears and cum part. There would be no special result of our lives individually any more than one pale leaf riding on a stream could create a natural dam big enough to stem the flow. Indeed, beavers had more agency.



Love, Peg

God damn the glamour

God damn the glamour
the glamour is gone

dirt owl in its hole
wing wrap of cardinal

we smear this glam all over
unseen it does not glitter

pardon our homosexual
remarks resting in hip

but this is not your trip
just a silly runway stroll

is what i'd say back in
the storied golden dome

but they came for the
mystery, then peed on it



Dr. Donna Thong
"Once a go-go, always a go-go."

Dear Landlord:

though you're younger than me, i wanted
you to step in and be the dad, pet your lad

the unexpected (why?) betrayal: stood by
your 2nd lady, in her insane blood-splendor

thanks for at least the patronizing tone and
chivalrous intent; alas i love you more now:

a manly man who will throw himself atop
a flowering hysteria to save the unworthy

yet i still am host to your dead wife's ghost,
letting, shitting in, your matrimonial bower

while the interloper sips ambrosia in your
step-up-suburb bed, this floor's your gravity.

why peels the rose trellis arch on the porch,
bows of satin testament still dryly clinging?

hetpower scarecrow? Tribal-alpine syndicate
crime reference? You don't see fit to burn it.

And why insist so strenuously the ways in
which i'm subject to your unyielding entry?




Jan Jansdaad
"I'm the single Jan."

My Feelin'

Look at me, my posse,
victorian gauze matron
back of hand to brow
makes it like real
swoon on divan
this is how I'd
feel if I were
in this moment; it's
an acting method:
to live out every
agonist, conflagration
in graceful riposte,
a state that's closer to
what really matters
across our nation, and
in my better breast like
a chicken pecking
to get out.



La Chama
"Ain't nobody know my feelin'."

I Want to Get My Period

It's not about the silly ideology; they're auctioning off our property.
Are you wondering whether couples necking on a porch is an orgy?
That's a good measure of who's got your tissue decisioning remote.
I hear a roaring that could be patriotic, jarring, or an air conditioner.
You try and tell them: what if you wake up one day and ask how it
happened, and that will be a moot question; which corporation will
come and save you then, which religion? We must march to reason.

They make posters of themselves with your names on them
He simply nods to the highest bidder
Every day is an insult
You are dismantling the nirvanic system

Are they any different from common thieves?
Remember to change your registration when you move.
Everyone is gagging on their daylight ganking.

Mothers of Mexican-American babies make an easily identifiable scapegoat.
Only not because of the way they drive.
Their happiness compared to our misery while sharing the same dimension feels repugnant.
Have a day off and piss off someone who's rich for a change.
Ever imagined you could fly above it all?
Remarkable how insignificant you would become.

Fuckers are people who want a medal for the results of having fucked with no protection.
Unlike HIV brothers, who brag way less.
Cocks and balls are earnest, but they wouldn't run for president.
Kicking a man's groin over and over is like the daily planet.
Everyone hyperbolizes always.
Rest assured next we meet we'll have burned and replaced every molecule.
So fresh in, fresh out; may the goddess finally release her mercy of blood.



By Pussy Riot
(Donna)

Punch line

Yes mom well great.
Yes I know it was just a phase.
But remember I was going through a phase then too.
It was
It was called my formative years.



Frag
Chama-side convo Mkidza Mlaf (mother)

A place where you come down easy

they never had to explain it until someone turned it off from the office
it was a place where vips could come down easy, live to tell about it

they say the closest thing to the sensation of impending death
and then a nauseating buttressing, result of machinery

where you contemplate the luck of your ancestry, or would if you were
the Chama, the work of society, science, mystery, the Crack.



Phyliss (embedded)
from "Before My Own Drop"

Chama ritual dropping

i lie flat back on cushion of air, a blower, but it's my weight against air as it follows the force of a mother
looking up is a tube of hair shocked, detaching, my hair and clouds in the middle, getting higher
the clothing tears, suddenly miles away this much they want me naked, these layers
this much the soils and mineral slurp me in through a straw the circumference of a planet,
whose curve is flattening all around my periphery; maybe next a limb, teeth, such a strong loving



frag 7.iv

She'd always played time hard

She'd always played time hard
but could never get it to go away
She made you understand how
hair could grow down to her butt
and you could measure it in inches,
not months, baby. Well, 9 months
baby, and at least 36 for the hair...

She'd always flipped time back like
a hot braid on a tank top, how the
weight just made her spine straighter,
back when exercise was a strengthener
not a  joint splintering waste of energy
Not the last kick in the pants that puts
you in the sucker or recovering whatsit
category, all to live for is an allegory...

Some kind of effing warning light for
teens to be scared? Well run to all the
mothers of the teens! Run I tell you now
before she takes time at its root and
makes a bitter stew of nothingness for
everyone, baby. 9 months and then...
Groundhog Day without her your key
away from the drudgery of your tiny
time mind, perpetual facsimile, vortex



Frags. 7.viii,ix
Later Epoch
Phyllis's mental notes while falling from K talons into pressure cushion within volca site

From this week's news

a fine patina of shit coats everything
ptsd epidemic
the meek, the poor, the beautiful
penguins
young pimp their self-image but
not sure if they can talk about themselves
young =
meaning young jovenes <40 br=""> < 40
<40 br="">gaunt, allergic
boundaries r talking points
money property conspicuous but invisible
welcome to your wealth login forgot what
what is your issue
i don't have an issue it's your issue see
do it all here, we skim, state r the enemy
you've got options because life is about
choices and that's who we are
you've got babies because life is all about
fucking and that's who we all want to be
we're having a party down at
there's a valley where they're sad but
fashionable and preened they
have currently in store models but
pay for it through public degradation
apparently. would that we all had
these products as opposed to other
products and spinoff product talks
these ones are whoring that system
with their kids and happy wagons
spitting out talky univisions
burbling as sporey yeast pops
fishy painted and groaning can't
help it something in him just
star of futuristic big-mouth poopy
pants and some misfits who
stan aroun his clingy titty shirt
point their guns

friends

K-Side

you were like primitive men but still above us, cows, on the spectrum
you were successfully surviving in the wild, and we had never even
seen wild until you brought it, and we had to catch up by immersion

we watched as our leaders side shuffled toward you guano-grinning
they too wanted to be cool and smooth but not quite that dangerous
honestly some of us found each other and matched causes good and

bad. Meaning a few paired up. Motives and outcomes were mixed.
You'd try and forces would pull you and others didn't understand;
you realized the power of your love was impractical if not trumped

By cultural fantasies, social fetish, the jargon and paraphernalia of
ranking. It seemed to be clear but wasn't who was most afraid, and
assignments couldn't always be explained by point of view. For me

maybe it works better if you're the one suffering because of my
suffering which you may or may not be causing. I may need you to
be the other lung that, too, breeds hateful sputum, but not a mirror.

Which would be so much easier. Why are your cheeks so ashy. Too
goggle-eyed, with sleep grains in the afternoon. Much-too-brown
eyes, even for you. Lidderly can't explain yourself to me right now.

I keep periphery-seeing flames rising behind me when it's only the
lowly ceiling trying to fan the cool electric light in a cloudy globe;
I might have asked where's the heat if cold fire didn't signal disaster.


by Jan (to You and K-Side of Yor Family, Ted)
"I had you or I have you-- no, what was there? Ever? What was it that could have gone so bare without having warmed or covered up for rareness of any other care? Peace out homey."