the Episodic Vibrations of Techra
: Boot From Floppy
There is this world in my head and every time I die I think about it every time I think about it, I die. This is a window that lets the warbles through in complex shapes that satisfy tender moments of hastened dedication. So I had just come out of Sohio, and to my addled brain seven antlers of truth wigwamed their way into a scrupulous pattern of leering light, modified by a dense mechanic of turning molecules and turning engines. It was the warming of transistors that began my castle stormed days of villainous retreat, and I was still the torture of the town then, before my casings shot and radioactivated the crowd by local control.
I don’t press any buttons that I don’t have to. I try to keep my hands steady as a bee, tackling my hair with rolled over punches and the sweet pulsation of the tremblers from beyond outer corridors, stream & river-access points straddling every location in a z-space, sliding down one allowing me to enter a methodology more in tune with my varied masocations. I’m talking about hillsides covered with green goodness and purple skies and the truth in the air, you could taste it everywhere.
I’m looking by patience and virtue, for the things that I can pull from inter-tubules floating down the creek, tangent to my knee. It flows freely here, and the thought stream I poke in any direction, gently displacing tharkbits which self-motivate and reconfigure themselves at motion and whim.
With my waxy layered fingers, I can push open a ripple or triple, spying to the twisted interception, colonized reception. Though my tender coils spin and turn to their own design, the faster they rotate the more they revolutionize, revitalize, and resolute the transmission.
Through careful mixture administered daily by the hand of Tod Onta, Antigen is kept in perpetual communicative consciousness. At the farm where Peter and his motherless son have been in production of a variety of mind-expanding ethnobotanicals, a path to encouraging and empowering plant consciousness had begun. As their bond grew, they collectively set on a path to recreating something that was not quite like wife, not quite like mother--just something that would satisfy their desire for creation of a consciousness more consistently multileveled than their own.
This was years ago in the linearality, but for Tod Onta the idea came to him in a dreamlike state, an awakening of sorts. Communications were made and effort put forth and Tod Onta, while peering through life as if through a prism, gave rise to the consciousness known as Antigen, his favorite fern.
Now Antigen experienced thought as a representation of her species, unlike our own modus--she experienced the collective consciousness of the particular genus of fern suscitatio. Plant spirits are very easy to get along with.
It was from the pairing of Tod Onta and Antigen that gave rise to the first child born of plant, animal, and technology.
There is a place that we have not seen in our magazines, picturephones, or steamboats, a place that lies beyond the vision of smoke & sheen, but walks (free-form) lost in a recursive thought, doubling--tripling, exponentially to potentiate in infinite regress. The loss and gains balance each other out, and you jump right in there, and try to figure it all out, holding onto your grandpappy or somesuch Morton salt girl, pouring down her salt rain into your cuts and self-inflicted bruises. There a jail cells and dead cells, and spit rocks to my filthy tomes.
In my best dreams, you won't be naked. But sleeping, slipped beneath a cooling sheet. There will be time for mistletoe and recharging batteries and writing that company a letter, complaining about the mold on your kool-aid sweater.
But in my best dreams, my dear, you will not be naked. Instead, I will have covered you with the peanut butter of my desire. I will have put you in the oven, fit inside a german pancake, setting the timer to infinity and drive, my dear, driving away.
I don’t care much where I’m going. These dreams have got to go. The better dreams make it hard to wake up and talk to you in the morning. My eyes are always open. I'm waiting for daylight before going on.