Ish Klein

Nobody was left who’d lastly scuffed first earth’s crust. Boiling sea had thin-sheened each cubit of firmament. Mountains ceased to assert, gave into ground arounding whatever hard rock to then there over and take down. All shapes breaking hysterical particles and subs who settled devoting former whir of shape to Silence, which was enough. It stayed uniform Silent for some many months which strengthened to pull outer space noise in to neutralize but lost its grip. So this Sound hard-pressed in to sink holes and look into original force that was still shut in under black lacquer cabinetry: our future perfect world. It opened the door of dust, the space sound picked up pings distantly. Seeing to sound is what and how Bounceback. Since the dust so still and small the waves skinnied high-pitched to switch on resistance of an average mote. What would stand to receive? What was the point of pointing out resisting decay? What was there to say? Could anything be activated? Much was strained in “done” state and so sought exit through the soft Silence under rather than he stabbed by the point-cornered Silence above. So sound deranged to be needle pierce to dust piece and sunned a word heard first by the bygone (“ouch”). And the Silence startled by the sneaking sound forgot its own high ground and grumbled some rebuke. Underground glad particulates laughed at the gaff and expanded (something among it a voice) to sweep up what had been PART TWO One in Dust begun. One chased out to Perceptivity from mum. This made an in as such that could close over after outreach which comes back with something to say. Stretching comes to the zone where there is shifting from mixing its own x-space with outside sensed data. Each already edgy piece in “earshot” each piece pulled in by dust’s desire to harbor more is similar to dolphin noise. Riffs that began off flats of static, f.p. earth (future perfect), etched by rust-hinged sound. Not all dust took in. Those who did not got ultra dense. If there was a strike to one of this specie sparks would be three feet at least and atoms unleash. To them strikes relieve adhesion. They like hits from nowhere; they won’t admit they are hard in every space. But sparks in dark if an eye sees them a mouth to say how beautiful a light of such blue that lasts and deepens blue. Shaped like a pin, each spark alights to hold itself, elsewhere, down. What it lands on is to remember the spark beautiful. A spark from Hard Silence made mad. The more made makes it harder which gets hit and flies further because it is harder. PART THREE Minute care is taken so that soft expansive dust gets all over the dense. Colors change as comes collision. They want to do all they can now that they can. Hopefully they don’t know about the deep frozen people in orbit. Those on the figurative shelf until there is a proper place. More on that after the fire; for now: the Sound, the Nerve, the Building.

These ghost soldiers live underground with the vast oversupply of castoff lanterns. If one were to take broadsword to one of these orange-bearded mammoth men of rough hew, he would laugh at the passing metal, make light of entrails. For years I have been here without a clear map. That hopes should dim as days go on above is natural I suppose, what do I know? I am dressed like one of them. The thick walls quake but stay soundproof. I fear my fists vestigial. These soldiers’ own panic is taking up rugs finding filigrees of the former world beneath, e.g., a locket with their mongrel’s mush. They will freeze, then feign noncom; smacking barrels of burgundy with pistol butts. I react comme squirrel: fleeing their reach to the chamber out of the impact area. One loved me until I asked if he worried about what must be happening without us. Well, his lips did narrow, hand abandoned my knee, blah, blah big mouth were his departing words. I will not say with shame that I came from nothing. Someone paved my first breakthrough at least, one time calling it love. And I will stand by that as it applies to my primary makeup.

The word penis is probably the most misattributed word in English, I think. Because almost nobody has a real one. The standards are made in Japanese or German factories. Womb/vagina sets are unusual too if genuine. Standards are from China; they are recycled sheepskin wallets. I was shocked too when I heard this. I do not have an actual either but they called me a genius when I figured it out about the fetal lamb/sheep skin. What else to do with all the wallets now that there’s no money? Only barter. I do not know what the inside of this thing looks like but I think it looks like a brain made of mozzarella cheese. Standard penises are made of a certain kind of plant. An ocean weed and how it’s fitted is by body weight at birth which is why you shouldn’t smoke if you are pregnant, you will be blamed even though it’s complicated to know exact reasons as we all in the new world know better each day. They’ve made new lingo to go with the genuine penis. They say unicorn, I say wasabi. Apparently, almost everyone gets green horseradish with sushi. Wasabi takes several million years to grow, its taste is delicate. When I mentioned Japan earlier, I meant the motor city. When I say Wasabi near Japan; it’s island of slow unit dance or Remarkable Mask. When I say new world, it’s where the newly suited go. T-cell robots, we of lambs and plants and jellyfish that are in our eyes which are colored by their place in the ocean. Really, if you broke us down, you’d have quite a collection: resins from pine, precious stones, silver dust, and sea grass filaments, stalks, pig livers, skin, a milk protein. This is the equipment for the dominant standard penis holders of the unreal, and I would love to be one with a genuine but I have not the stomach to pull off the cunning necessary for the genuine purse/penis license. You barter for it; you lie. Don’t get me wrong, it must be nice to have options. But to get them dishonestly? It’s bothering. I know, I know! I have got to say goodbye to the babyhood phase. Learn to thrive! Nobody has a father or a mother. I know this means to thrive! To be one’s own lover. My sheepskin wallet is . . . What could a person say? Stuck in the past, tripped up by the concept of wallet? It’s not like anything gets taken out unless it’s rotten which it probably isn’t because I feel okay and you look alright. It’s that it wants to be ultimate although a new and genuine vagina/womb set from a biped has not been recorded in over 180 years which means billions of here/now moments. Which means forgotten a trillion times and remembered exactly one plus that. There’s not as much empty space as we thought in the old blueprints that made donuts in space—the halo, the Homeric lure. The one electron penis and the drone. I’ve been sick and found all this out because I couldn’t get out of bed and there was a diamond near my head. I was reading about moray eels, their hydraulics. How they practically fly-fish with agility. It’s the forward going. I’d like to go boldly. I’ve kept a card of energy. Wilderness saved from childhood. Of this secret, one must be silent so the sun can trust us. Kids need each other. Better they never get separated entirely. Contra this, I do want to fly fish. To cast off and plant it then go with the nylon line. Where to take off the old wallet and give it back to a lamb. I’ll be the promo homo making arrangements to go to the show where we trade our new pieces congenially and find others, depleted by scavengers, and get them up-and-running to better suns, not the promised land, exactly the opposite. Exactly the opposite of anything promised.

I’m not in with this mystery. Somebody steady me. Cool ocean breezes don’t make me laugh. I’m in with noisy metal little nils. A million apologies. I must have made more. You were sensitive, you needed them No you weren’t and you didn’t. In fact . . . oh forget it! In the middle of the ocean reflected with the moon, good place to show; probably no one knows you there. Your leaving, the thrown rope up to sky, climbed up for real goodbye. I realized my reason insufficient; you must have considered this. How my specific lean to you smelled like an old paper cup of funny water and you were not very thirsty. You came unbidden initially and often. A field and flickering wicks of foxes from here to there. You. Holding Hell at bay. Back to ground, I see you on the moon with your mirror catching action on the parallax. Some kind of wise guy.

Somebody who would never refuse money told me this— about the syncretic effect when each person plugs their attention into a field to read ad copy, let’s just say they become opened up and other beings can see into their minds. This was considered a science fiction idea to many people, but not to me. In my negative space construction is always occurring. The liftoff from awful to tolerable to positive and then finally to bright new beautiful has been my most difficult task to swing. But swing I will; there’s nothing else to do. I live here and being here and hearing myself or my mind’s divide through others convinces me that I must do everything I can to save us from the pit. That is, until the pit splits and the fruit tree finally grows. You may have a tree of your own—you may have a home in your own tree. Congratulations. If you write an instructive pamphlet you can bet I will read it. I do not want to go out in darkness. I am doing everything I know to prevent this, and thank you, by the way, if you’ve written a pamphlet. The shared information system and each being at the end of its screen emits an LED (light emitting diode) on an often green screen—you say I should give my father up to the authorities. You blame your circumstances on my choice—but it’s the authorities who did this to him. How do you think a person loses his mind? He let someone take it. He is sort of my mind and you are too, God help me. The green screen is an ingenious discovery. You can record events in a studio before the screen and then key in whatever environment you like. It’s a special color: Chroma Green, but it can be blue too. The experience of things is determined by our feelings about them. Information is colored by us. You may see remotely, in a photograph for instance, the image of an ambush victim. Maybe it is a war and/or she is caught naked. If she is unhappy—indicated by face and body arrangement—you may feel that. Some people will hate the state of things that made her so alone and vulnerable but few will do anything about it. How do you find her? What guns surround her country? And after all, maybe she would hate it. To have to feel grateful to someone moved by her humiliation. She may only be thinking about humiliation. That is a tough feeling to shake. Then, and I need not go too far into this, then there are those who see the pain of someone and they just love it. This may have something to do with a revenge sentiment over their own unclosed wound. The wound, they think, is everyone else’s fault and they cannot forgive. This is only information, in the form of speculation. Some feelings you get when you consider “What if this happened to me?” and you will want to remedy the situation to secure yourself from the (negative) condition of it. Together, humans create one body—the planet earth and its projections. The things in the stomach affect what goes on in the head. On the web many people make money with miracle potions. Some curb the human appetite. Some say you can lose while consuming whatever you want. I heard the other girl refer to me as a skull. She was very angry and did not look or say hello. There is a prevalent competitive notion that each only has one place. That her face is only hers and that I don’t have a face or to her it is death. This she reads as me—the death of her. Obviously I am not. I write and read and then roll on. I wear an ordinary human face, some could compare me to a bird of prey because my nose is hooked and my fingers are long and I like to ride my bicycle with the wind at my back. I am not here to attack. You are also a mutant. Do you think you can keep the heavy metals outside of you? Do you think you can go to sleep here and wake up the same? The screen is framed by plastic, beneath that you use words to issue commandments or call-outs. Most people use the web to send messages to people who are already their friends. They make arrangements for later and detail what happened in the past. This information may be not true. The web cannot know intention. It records and is open to influence. People make money through advertisements, or so they think—well, selling ads, that’s quantifiable— if ads make money, that is more difficult to know unless there are special offers. The web is full of special offers and 30-day trials. If you fall for those, or I should say, if you respond to the offer what often happens is that your information is shared with other companies who will fill your inbox with offers (that which is known as spam). Because you are someone who wants to look great and there are other companies with products compatible with your stated desire. Ways for you to achieve the prevailing notion of beauty. It is my job to tell you the models are selected because they are physically improbable. They are elevated to be made desirable. Their desirability is physical because they are models. If it were easy to be like that, they would not be sought-after by manufacturers. Generally, working people need to be sturdy. Advertisers want to make money. They go with psychology and so create a sort of self-rejection by advocating forms not reflected in most people. They know that people will pay in to be of an elevated form no matter what station they are from. Everyone wants to be beautiful. Everyone wants to be the agreed-upon beautiful thing. Probably everyone is beautiful somewhere inside if not outside. You can create an excellent argument for your being and improve upon ability. That is my opinion. If you live alone, you may know how great the web can be. On it there is information and pornography. Information includes the prospects. Pornography is the biggest industry in America. It is designed to bring about a certain state of arousal, generally, couched in anger that will allow the person to fuck exactly how they want to without worrying about the one fucked. Pornography is addictive for many. Of course, sometimes people want to touch, to hear a voice to imagine a partner and what they can do together. The web has many dating services. My ex-psychiatrist advised me against trying them. She had transferred the daughter role onto me. I do appreciate the dangers of strangers. I am prepared with the information that pictures are not people in both obvious and non-obvious ways. I know at least three people who have been in love with people they met online. Each one is intelligent and down-to-earth. I’ve gleaned from their descriptions of online courting that the early questions are essential. That and no expectation and somehow you have to withhold your own personal information. That is, until you meet up in a non-threatening place. You will have to have someone know where you are, a point person. And you will need a defense; mace, for instance or a rape whistle or a dog leashed nearby or in the car. It will be important for him or her to know you have a dog. They should meet each other as soon as possible. This is the magic of the machine. The meeting and love trial and, if it works, the love made. Well, that really is amazing. Objectively amazing. And good for the machine. Good for the machine. The electric web courses heavily through me. This may be how we make history: we can put up our movies, our words, or costume dramas. We say we are so and so and people follow the saga. Do you ever get the problem which is opposite to the problem of the watcher? Have you ever only seen yourself through other people? Or thought that’s what it was but it was really your thought processes transferred through them? I should look up the word rubric again. That and lacuna and devi. In the thrift store nobody looked at me. But the woman said, “Devi (hee, hee) Devi.” A celestial being: what we all are. True she might have meant devil. I am not a devil. I love my friends most of the time. I love animals—I don’t think devils do that. My friend sends me pictures of jackrabbits and frogs. Yesterday, he said he saw buttercups, a type of flower. You go over the tracks first, on the other side of the river and there they are.