THREADCOUNT

as i approach the speed of light i really don’t give a fuck about your bank loan

now this. this radical culturing of natives into a sport, a past-TIME activity electing its nowwers and laters, a boogaloo of blue-eyed boys, i have reached the extent of meaningful consonances, they singe my pink tongue, these days i saxophone my 12-inch veg sub at the local subway, it is safer to pitch my frustrations as an ascension off a honey oat than to lunge at it Pac-man style, nothing makes essence, nothing essentience that is, unless you happen to own a Twitter account & call yourself a neo-polityculturist, your tweets a bunch of sheets held by a binder clip, or a foldover clip, which in the united kingdom is called a fold-back clip, as though to fold is to block the flow, the clip is a TIME-tested invention to prevent flying, not to be confused with the bulldog clip of a stronger bite, the papers still flutter their formidable utterance to the wind, U.S. Patent 1,139,627 details the clip and its physical dimensions, fold its handles and it resembles a handbag flick them in succession the black isoscelestial bod flits as in a TIME-lapse video, going nowhere because nothing is, the papers assume a tethered swell, a shushing voice of elsewhere, this. a Nation ricochets into existence in the recoil of a gun, a pruned throwness, pull a muscle blame a beluga, tomorrow is only for the living, TIME is a slot machine for a boogaloo boy who drinks to the brink & promises to burn Covid’s metamorphoses, we have our words to curse, he barfs a grim brine his voice spins an irruptive column, talk about the ontology of an echo scattering among a piss of nowwers & law mowers who pfff! melt beer cans & pour their menial labor over paper wasp nests, a sort of relapse, this slow venturing of metal into pores pulpy petioles all warm bulbing spherules, when the cast hardens they hold their trophy & call it a trophy, this is how language is made anyway i am not here, only the voice is, proto-punctuating the silence, i think of the incessant telecaller who tried to sell me bank loans, i had to blur into an elsesistence, the taking-place of language at the instance of discourse as a deferred agency, this radical articulation