random fruits of antilabor

"the homeless, prostitutes and whores
side by side round the garbage cooking smores."

***

the connected and the disconnected

you can get wifi here
and privately hear itunes scream in your ear
updated facebook stream on your screen
and twitter clever haikus about last night's dream.

the world is wireless
(and it's nearly desireless!
at least until the next update launch).

i had a question
nagging question
distracting me from my webbed attentions.
i followed my standard protocol and googled it
and found a dozen unrelated things to talk about;
posted them on my facebook wall
to send ripples out to the all
and soon forgot what my original query had been.
it couldn't have been important;
no one had answered it before
(at least not in the top 20 search results).

oh neat,
someone did a re-tweet
and linked to one of my post.
i'll sit for a minute in pleased repose.

i had a question
nagging question
trivial question
but it must not been important.

***

bluetooth, and unhappiness. the unhappy and pretentious doctor. i feel sorry for him. but no one opens up to him. no one opens up to him because ultimately he is not there for them... he is not a good listener. he is someone who boxes up their wounds for them... wraps them up like christmas presents... nothing to offer but bows and ribbons and pretty bandaids... their words were meant to howl in the emptiness... and you haven't a bedside ear...

***

how to make sense of it all. how to find a pattern in all of this. and whether it is all a waste of time. these are all questions of the ego, of the one who wants to make worth out of nothing, through sequestering and lassoing air and space... boxes... remembering the secret of resonance chambers... perhaps a whole room... these are all empty rooms... and they don’t lead anywhere. and they don’t contain anything... but when the wind blows across the mouth of them, then there is a deep sound. and you can feel it all within you... you become one with a vibration... a secret... a deep secret...

***

the heart. the hurt. the art... a mix between hurt and art...

***

outstrip and outlast and speed past the ego, break through the speed of sound and the sound barrier, the barrier of the ego, if you can write fast enough perhaps you can find that place where no word has ever been, and no sound could reach you... and there will be a thundering, not unlike the buddha’s lion roar, the roar of silence, the place where the air wakes, and finds its own absence, and collapses in on itself in sheer disbelief...

***

and how i want to add disturbance to their comfortable facades... send a ripple across your face. please ripple across your face... worry. worry super scurry.

i am seeking to build a rocket that will traverse, that will span the abyss, to you. to who? who is reading this? this mythical reader i have invented...

i am pyongyang and i am firing a missile in your direction to catch your eyes. but with my limited technology, i will miss you by 500 miles, and be shot down. and then you will bring hell to my impoverished people...