Ice Under Pressure -- Vanilla Queen

Untitled: space 3

Lacking the appropriate rhetorical
practices, normalized.  Struggle of
repetitive subjectivities

...these mean very little, and not

because of syntax.

Untitled: space 2

lost the cork--found another good use for birth control.

Untitled: space 1

of achieving stability (or, homeostasis through)

physiological or behavioral change:

This can be carried
out by means of alter-
ation hormones, the autonomic.


Adaptive in the short term.
Internal viability, nervous system,
changing conditions;
essential in to maintain--
this can be carried.

HPA axis
HPA axis
HPA...a number of other systems.

cytokines, adaptive in essential order
adaptive of other systems:

a number.

Allostasis is order
in to maintain, or in
to change.
Behavioral number, a number
cytokines, or a number of other systems.
generally adaptive.

Internal

changing

amid essential order,
in to maintain the short term.

the inward curve of the shoulders, though beautifully accentuating of the clavicles, is a sure sign of poor breath support. Or: watching La Divina in decline, 1962.

humans--an estuarial

public restrooms are where all life and art happen.  street art, trash art, the poignant art of hard lives worn on deeply grooved faces--these mean nothing to me. these are not the point of anything.

oh microbial cocktail, you are a meeting of outside and inside, private and public, and I love your acoustics all the more for it.

something always happens in the water closet.
Example: you are always surrounded by mirrors and their arrangement can turn humans and their many symbiots into a fractal arrangement of macro/microcosms. 

Example: doors are in a perpetual state of opening and closing;
example: switches are gatekeepers and somewhere inside the wall is the great sphinx they call intersection.

the food always comes.

Example: the quick reveal and renegotiation of the elaborate soft machinery under dresses.

when there is simply too much outside to fit inside, there are lines of dialogue and strands of hair and children on leash lines, lip lines and eye lines demarcating the inside from the outside.

humans, estuarial.
stranger density.
layering and unlayering performances, strands and substances, skin cells and modes of intentionality.

a stable outside holding a center in transition

A Closed Signal Loop

My dearest robotic arm,

I write you this fine afternoon in order to deliver some troubling news:  you are imperfect.  I first noticed it while touching myself about a week ago.  The dexterity of your fingers left much to be desired, and your stiff wrist reminded me of a hunk of useless wood.  This was not what I was looking for.

my cat nibbled at your edges.  I must admit that it tickled slightly, but when I saw the level of damage from poufy's jaws...I knew you were made of something less than reliable.  additionally, this suggests that your tactile sensors are not working at peak efficiency.

You buzz when I sleep.  They say there are types of robotic heart parts--valves and pacemakers--that lightly whir or click deep within the human chest.  Most can't hear these sounds.  But then most are oblivious to the clock pieces they carry.  I can hear all your servos and more.

Flawed cybernetics: this is my destiny.  I want to rip the scar tissue that demarcates our union.  I want to tie off and tag all the vessels, inspect the furthest edges where my machine self pressed up against my flesh self, night after day after night.  I want to smooth out the hesitant motion of my wrist, so smooth it is no longer necessary.

MFEO, my dear pet

i think maybe i'm suppose to want to be one or the other?  i really don't know anymore...

i didn't know what to do with all this cheap gossamer

the serving of drinks: misreading the movement of the wrist

dearest ligature:

i write this to inform you of the state of our union.

we follow diphthongs and call them tuesday brunch (no responsibilities but to our own poached intentions and creme fraiche).

we open doors, we uncork bottles of 10am champagne. as a child i imagined intimate inter-weavings of curve and corner. my aunt and uncle called me lolita and i thought it was simply a name they liked. lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tail trailing from mandible to the cratering peninsula between ilia.

when serving a traditional morning punch, the pitcher's handle should fit snuggly in the hand so as to survive any grand gestures of the arm. while bent at the waist, bent at the knees, offer a bit of helpful information. "Here's a little phrase for you in the German language: 'essen mein scheiße, fraulein.'"

we are partners in a multitude of sins, and it is only when forced to pause and take a stalk from the glass--to cross and uncross legs--that the view from beneath a skirt can be captured in our paper and ink engagement. there are many desires between the here and the there, and inevitably a discussion of opportunity costs must periodically surface: well-seasoned, plenty of heat, don't go easy on the vodka.

piercing membranes

passed through small villages of angles--this morning served itself like a 1-up flying off some fallen and trampled grains. when they went out onto the path they were like a catepillar of laces and boning, one pair at the crossing ribbons, one pair at the next, 4 ladies in corsets.

this little piggie went shopping, this little piggie starved, this little piggie gathered a small army of komrades to forcibly cinch her waist into a shape more desirable.

this piggie is holding out for a better deal. this little piggie is a sausage stuffed into a sweater. this little piggie builds elegant software...firmware...the hardest thing to wear.

multiphoton excitation

...was the image. i took this dish of live but sloughed cells (doesn't make any sense, does it my petit shoe,) polaroided my way into differing levels of bent and bending lights.

colors:

• urantia is of wilted poppies;
• mesmerize and polyglot are often debated, since they are so close in hue.
• quarterly is what you turned when walked-in on by the child in the bathroom (pull your ankles up!)
• i once pretended to care if his shirt was cerveza or spindlebrooke--they are basically the same, but asserting the difference was what allowed us the 3 minutes to become acquainted with the idea of sleeping with each other. that and how do you do, sir?

before the lens you were small and uncomplicated, a series of semi-permeable walls. but now, ahah! this is not the end. so soon and yet so far away.

the genesis of imagining new ways to hold protoplasm (grape, cherry, blue raspberry...) is simply an issue of states of matter.

it's all mitochondrial, my dear watson.

the object's the thing

fold back into the space--these are precursors to definitions like DHA and omega-3's. love of the object draws me near and draws me away:

the tide is a limitless apology, lapping up onto the ankle. wanting the screen is not the same as wanting the page but wanting, the page wants itself...over and over again.

and i will deny it. i will press my cheek and temporal lobe, the crest of my forehead against the glass teddybear of a plane. pushing my face perpendicular until i gain entrance, pushed through and redoubled again.

the line drawn between bits and light is a matter of semantics.

begin.