building has us at its center.
John slept beneath the woman whose body turned rhythmic circles over his crotch. She curved and rolled. She rested her ass on his dick.
A body circled me, too.
I kept my hands on the sides of the chair. Her breasts brushed my cheek, soft and maternal. I closed my eyes and reentered the womb. A man’s hand shook me awake.
You gotta leave.
Prolonged time spent in space will result in massive bone loss and musculoskeletal atrophy, severely inhibiting astronauts’ long-term flight capabilities.
Take him with you.
Astronauts could sustain injuries reentering a gravitational field such as Earth’s, or even stronger: that of Mars.
This is exacerbated by in-flight anorexia: a loss of appetite resultant of space’s adverse affects on human metabolism.
I cannot control what my arms do. I feel that they don’t belong to me.
(Sleep beneath her pressure.)
There are two mechanical forces: active and passive.
Wake up. I can’t drive, John.
Wake up, John. Help me.
I reach for the keys but miss. My eyes bob open and shut. I put my head back.
One leg on one side and one on the other.
I can’t see. Help me.
Wake up, John. Please.
He didn’t know his body and hers came together. He didn’t know when they separated. He breathed peacefully. Passively.
Can you drive?
She asked me what to do. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I couldn’t see. I was comfortable as I was.
Shut up.
I was comfortable there without body. I was gas floating inthe warm, dark walls. I turned to gas and floated away in the margins, moved like liquid mercury.
Had my own woman dancing. She was mine and I was nothing.
Open your eyes. Open them.
She was slim torso, long legs, full breasts, firm and encapsulating. She began as a nebula.
Open up. John, help me.
I slap my face. I slap the other side. Open my eyes. I’m awake. I slap myself again.
I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.
John, I’m going to drive us home now. You need to help me.
I open the windows and shake him hard. I pull onto the road. I move in one direction.
Mom, please.
My arms are heavy and at the same time liquid.
I drive toward the silver gas of the city and the road’s margins.
I can’t do this. Mom, help me.
I shake and swerve and pull into another lot. I am always entering another lot. I am always arriving somewhere I didn’t intend to be.
I put the seat back and the car spins around me. John wakes at the sudden movement. He’s looking for what?
Where are we?
I don’t know. Mercury.
John, I can’t do this on my own.
My mentor finds me in the supply closet clutching coffee in one hand and a tissue in the other. Bits of tear-soaked tissue cling to my face. I am leaning on the pencil shelf.
What’s wrong?
I have a thyroid disease.
My last night in Chicago, I helped John design our distro’slogo. We’re calling ourselves Black Masque. We’re selling zines, t-shirts, messenger bags, and the ideology of veganarchism.
And general Earth liberation.
We print the zines for free from the Internet and then we take our printouts to FedEx and make as many copies as we think we’ll need — 25 or 50. We keep them on shelves in his apartment.
We buy solid t-shirts from American Apparel because American Apparel doesn’t use sweatshops. We screenprint them with white ink if the shirts are black. If they’re earth-tones, we use black ink. The ink is vegetable-based and nontoxic, and wasn’t tested on animals. We ordered it online.
Our messenger bags will be sewn together from old jeans. I’ll sew them myself, this winter, after the school year is over. Then, I’ll mail them to John for screenprinting.
Most of our screenprints are the Black Masque logo: a freestanding figure holding a dog, wearing the signature mask. Other screenprints are anarchist slogans — some we found and some we devised:
Today’s empire is tomorrow’s ashes. We are the crisis.
People are not profits. Longer leashes / larger
John slept beneath the woman whose body turned rhythmic circles over his crotch. She curved and rolled. She rested her ass on his dick.
A body circled me, too.
I kept my hands on the sides of the chair. Her breasts brushed my cheek, soft and maternal. I closed my eyes and reentered the womb. A man’s hand shook me awake.
You gotta leave.
Prolonged time spent in space will result in massive bone loss and musculoskeletal atrophy, severely inhibiting astronauts’ long-term flight capabilities.
Take him with you.
Astronauts could sustain injuries reentering a gravitational field such as Earth’s, or even stronger: that of Mars.
This is exacerbated by in-flight anorexia: a loss of appetite resultant of space’s adverse affects on human metabolism.
I cannot control what my arms do. I feel that they don’t belong to me.
(Sleep beneath her pressure.)
There are two mechanical forces: active and passive.
Wake up. I can’t drive, John.
Wake up, John. Help me.
I reach for the keys but miss. My eyes bob open and shut. I put my head back.
One leg on one side and one on the other.
I can’t see. Help me.
Wake up, John. Please.
He didn’t know his body and hers came together. He didn’t know when they separated. He breathed peacefully. Passively.
Can you drive?
She asked me what to do. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I couldn’t see. I was comfortable as I was.
Shut up.
I was comfortable there without body. I was gas floating inthe warm, dark walls. I turned to gas and floated away in the margins, moved like liquid mercury.
Had my own woman dancing. She was mine and I was nothing.
Open your eyes. Open them.
She was slim torso, long legs, full breasts, firm and encapsulating. She began as a nebula.
Open up. John, help me.
I slap my face. I slap the other side. Open my eyes. I’m awake. I slap myself again.
I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.
John, I’m going to drive us home now. You need to help me.
I open the windows and shake him hard. I pull onto the road. I move in one direction.
Mom, please.
My arms are heavy and at the same time liquid.
I drive toward the silver gas of the city and the road’s margins.
I can’t do this. Mom, help me.
I shake and swerve and pull into another lot. I am always entering another lot. I am always arriving somewhere I didn’t intend to be.
I put the seat back and the car spins around me. John wakes at the sudden movement. He’s looking for what?
Where are we?
I don’t know. Mercury.
John, I can’t do this on my own.
My mentor finds me in the supply closet clutching coffee in one hand and a tissue in the other. Bits of tear-soaked tissue cling to my face. I am leaning on the pencil shelf.
What’s wrong?
I have a thyroid disease.
My last night in Chicago, I helped John design our distro’slogo. We’re calling ourselves Black Masque. We’re selling zines, t-shirts, messenger bags, and the ideology of veganarchism.
And general Earth liberation.
We print the zines for free from the Internet and then we take our printouts to FedEx and make as many copies as we think we’ll need — 25 or 50. We keep them on shelves in his apartment.
We buy solid t-shirts from American Apparel because American Apparel doesn’t use sweatshops. We screenprint them with white ink if the shirts are black. If they’re earth-tones, we use black ink. The ink is vegetable-based and nontoxic, and wasn’t tested on animals. We ordered it online.
Our messenger bags will be sewn together from old jeans. I’ll sew them myself, this winter, after the school year is over. Then, I’ll mail them to John for screenprinting.
Most of our screenprints are the Black Masque logo: a freestanding figure holding a dog, wearing the signature mask. Other screenprints are anarchist slogans — some we found and some we devised:
Today’s empire is tomorrow’s ashes. We are the crisis.
People are not profits. Longer leashes / larger
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