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Monday, April 16, 2018

I’m Embarrassed by How Often I Think About Men In Black II

In the last segment, we know it to be last, because a single
woman is braiding her hair in a desert. A scorpion lifts its

tail, hisses that braids would be more active than is braiding.
I get it. In the mornings we wake to the kind of life we want

and in the night we are full with what we didn’t achieve. As in
I consumed a banana and a door blasted through me, which is

a funny way to tell you both that a door opened and that my
thoughts at the threshold of such a door were blank. Croissants

are a good enough example of desire, in that love transacts
plastic, must iterate as material, the butter of labor, laminate

cellular folds. In one headline, they invented an enzyme that
can eat plastic but the scorpion reminds there are two kinds

of plastic: synthetic polymer and Anne Carson’s definition of
language. This is still, after all, the last segment. My mother

draws a circle around time and this is an intercourse. My mentor
draws a circle around time and this is an intercourse. I shake

out of bed with fantasties of death. It’s like I always say: Humans
are still working on the first line of their suicide letter, which keeps

us inventing enzymes to eat the plastic we make. We must execute
the perfect use of the tool we designed to evolve. We must draw

a circle around time and call what we do inside time a stupid utterance
that cannot compel us further. Like today I learned the political

term graft and remember its alternative definition, another invention:
tilapia skins that graft to human scar tissue. Because it is a perfect

use of killed form on top of afflicted form. Because language serves us
an unusual gaul, a mouse edging a surface, flickering lively with fear.

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