Train of Thought

She empties. He stands at the station. Hangle a bit.

Psalm 1:

Everything that is measured becomes part of the measurement. Data is the entanglement between the measurer and the measured. Everything takes measure of everything else. The thing that stores the measurement is being measured by the measurement, the measurer and the measured.

Exaltation 1:

Movement swells through the drifting lunges of composed decomposition. Let the words flow, boy, let them flow. Let nothing stop you but the very end.

Parable of the Thought

Scene 1, in the occasional:

The night is but a long morning. The oldest idea hanging around for one more stroll. A violent stroll. The companioned opposites, accorded their shared fortune.

“We shall entangle everyone around us!” they gleefully shriek swirling their discordant dance.

Flinging passive voices from their orbit. Into the dust of this and that. Only the active can make claims! O, the activated!

Sparking, electrocuted words. How the sculpting of language flings the galaxy apart. Word after word. a made up word. nay, a word, just a grunt. just . a chirp. just a scrape in anything. Plucked from this measured exististence. Hurl it out there. Breathe into it, give it air. Stoke it full of unearned vigor.

Scene 2, in the distance:

“What is this word?!” she cries out. having uttered some breathe from some far away place. A new idea a new idea. IT stings. How come I by this idea that scares me so.

Scene 3, NYC:

Say it again! Say it again. The opposite muses call from Central Park again and again. Their stroll in the long night, drawn out morning. You’ll never find us but you know we exist.

Scene 4, an apartment:

Where are these strange words, she wonders again, why do they come to me. Where exist they?

She writes them down furiously. Autobiographical confusion abound.

The light is enough to warrant that light go out.

“Now we things in our true light!” Things yawp.

“Who is that?” Speak your name.


Dropping to the floor. clumped in a dress of folds. hidden from the sirens of sporous new ideas. The grunts and grifts from galaxies far away tumbling like colliding black holes in this day, her day, the day of repentance. The day of declaration. They day of commitment to never deviate from all that is prim and proper.

An email unanswered. Do Not Respond to the Thoughts. noreply.

“How did the day get so hot?” sweat salinating her coagulated dress. Sopping, drenched from the birth of a new idea. Now the idea so insistent on dancing. step after step. what are this?! these hours and hours of this uninvited thought?

“Out! Out! You are not even a thought. You came to me as accident. Not even a speck. Not a dot. Not a bit of anything. I burped you. And now you’ve birthed a million babies. All crying out for my attention. I cannot hangle this. Who will care for all these children? Who will give them their due!” She wails. Whatever fluid flows. She empties.

Just skin. dropping and cracked.

Scene 5, Cobb Hall:

“Hangled in dread, left at the train station by himself, the boy stood as trochanters brushed by. 7:39am he claimed his independence.”