the prism in the bird pattern

My office door is shut and Momus is cranked. It is optimal that I isolate in here, cackling maniacally until the bugs (aphids!) work themselves out. Rarely do I jack up the volume while Momus is playing, but once upon a time, just after I bought Forbidden Software Timemachine, I played it in my car and took to pulsing the freeway. Soon I pulled into a gas station, pulled up right next to an African-American gentleman—of the gangsta sort. His car too was throbbing, but with bass and bitches. I bobbed my head, he thrust his hands emphatically at the steering wheel. The effeminate voice fluttering about homosexuality and quoting Keats over a delicate guitar in my car, juxtaposed with attitudinous rhymes, beats, and bling in his car, struck me with seizure trying so hard to compose and withhold. Lesson: lose composure, little one. Go ahead and laugh, even if it means sanitarium or subsequent gang war (e.g., Crossbones Split Rainbows Behind Belle Mead High School—Fierce Prism Ensues!).

In other rivalries, the circadian cycle is barreling across the plains in a direct path toward the Theban cycle. Expect more tornadoes and possibly the first on-land hurricane, in the eye of which a blind king will be exiled to a tower in the desert where the sky rains oil. His hair will grow long into a braid. This is the new tarot and milkmaid prophecy, purchased to replace aberrant augury.

Last night my roommate asked me if there were chemicals in the water. I stood on my head and then wrote a short novel called November 16, 2005. A top spins perpetually in that kitchen.