"zzzhzhzzzzzz...." said the buzzing unidentified stationary object to the sun, the intermittently sun-covered leaves, to the blackboard, black, under no sun.

"One day, here, my chord was installed. The man brought me, took me out of my box, my plastic preservatives, and placed me securely, by plastic bindings, onto the wall. Now I give power to the projector and to the remote controls, to the dvd player, the stereo, and the analog switches. But you know what?" uttered the white cable, whose black strip had been painted over to match the color of his surroundings.

"what?" replied i.

"I always thought I might be more than just this cable in this room. I don't have feet, why do you cover yours? I don't have hair, yours is cut. I have no sex, no secretions, am genderless, faceless, colorless..."

To the whitened black cable I replied, or remarked, or studded the plat-face situation (incurvé is more my forte): "I can cut you down, and take you with me. You can wrap around my arms, or around my hips, you can crawl into my arteries, a slight pinch, but trust me honey, you won't feel a thing. And when you're with me, in me, I'll take you where I go."

"zzzzhzzz", "zzzzzhzzzz" *pop*

We can go looking for things that we cannot find. There are a handful of buckets, buckets of fried shrimp and agnostic jews. When we go around, looking at things, filling our eyes, actually not wondering what to do. We have occupied ourself, stuck our ears up with idon'thearyou-s and...

Saturated space, occupying our mental corpses, who only a jitter of excitement require to be resurrected. ...stumble, mumble,

If you take all the squares, we included, and put them into a rectangle, eh, slightly fits, if you shove it in, to a circle, maybe in the next life

tick-tack, tap-tap, i might tap away to outerspace (i didn't know i in interspace was, or that interspace was, is me) fly away on my lack of verbs and generalities to a shiny, bulbous irreality zone, where my robot larynx dictates

you are you are you are you are you are you are you are you are...

i would occasionally like to tell myself: you are not, you aren't
how can one enact a jitter? a jolt into your fried soul, up around whose corners through which you travelled, you know whose corners! awaken!

Leaves in this digital wind, sucking sap from varicose branches; dry, crusty, ancient. Schhh...from your root root into your branch, into your tree, its trepid bark, the cool breeze a mountain of air and particles, your weak vertebrae can they hold? or crack; you fell off. And now your feet, pat-pat, and breath, khee-khee, your stumbling, light blood vessels, each pumping you, pumping you, pumping you into you. This wind shall pass; rest, ascend, sweep across, but pass.

Following his tumultuous fall the man stood up. He knew not where he stood...

To the birds

To sit here, in the same place, a banal fate destined. But in the chair, covered by manufactured foam pillows, a symphony to me is presented. Not the electronic feed driving into my skull, but the small birds who have finished building their nest, the black crows, who in a circle fly, chasing one another, dropping and spinning and dipping. The leaves caress their leaves, so they sing; and to me, I absorb their organic melody. Not a production, no plugs, no formality, a chirp by need. And although their symphony to me seems destined, my neighbors of this are unrecognisant.