Forest of Trance
Far from the hard plane into the path of the squandering tide lay a wad of fresh squall. It twisted the gaze of fear from terror to timid water. Once the ignition grazed the memory, the flame died into the jungle of the past. Forests grew into intense families of flames and drowned their heads above the horizon. Casting blame spread the indictment of whole generations of primary determination into one loop of truth. It stopped there, paused, and spread out along the last channel of thirst.
Diving over the band of loose sorrow, screams died out on a mountain of low spindles of tidy hands. Weak emotion reports to the point. That solves the hanging duty to begin the long anticipation of wisdom. In response, trees grow helpless into scattered wit. The blunders stagger the despondent episode that turns glamor to gravel.
Without the crisp tangle of the forest of sloping landscape, travel turned to a beam of straightened pauses. Here is where I turn. Heading into the bend, I folded the band of waves to the return of light. This settles the case for the high towers of cause. Nothing was wasted in the bursting pitch that catches the dust of toil. I had nowhere to go- no season to catch or moment to exceed. The green tunnels drove inward, breaching the limit of purpose. Caught in the lie, envy crumbles in waxy filaments that melt into pages of split syllables. I turned left into the empty border lining the forest. The pealing order arranged the appetite of the shady path. The danger grows with pending impression in the leading edges that wrapped the slender branches. An afternoon burns in the fields of waiting.
The reason that the lush margin fends for itself is because the point is turned toward the arrogant past. It has landed where it revolves on pivotal posture. Nowhere is it found to match the center of galloping war, or the rendering crime. All the jousting is rolled inward where it is digested into ragged pledges. The sham belches with convoluting symmetry that spills onto the bubbling meadow. No one looked when the sea of weeds divided into a spill of poison crops. The cross section vindicated the bifurcated abundance. Why this? The mirror that bent the slim majority cantilevered over the lonely sky. This is the shaky premise that won the terminal surrender.
Foremost before the ends collide, a weak link embarrasses a cold assembly. Flipping back onto a bare parade, the crowd folds into jelly. Half drained in the pale murder, a pleasant answer conceded to die. Laughter erupted in pickled ice, but the party stalled on partial notice. One by one the chill became understated, and lunch was severe. The forests died on the udders of greed with a slim minority presided over the limp remains.
Cult of the Bottom Feeders
AI will soon take over every function that benefits those in control and reduce humans to digital statistics. Every task that can be done by AI will be assigned without hesitation and with exuberance. Humans will evolve reduced upper limbs to look more like dinosaurs. Even trimming nose hairs and tying one’s shoes will be done by AI. When and if it fails, nose hairs and shoelaces will become entangled, and nothing can prevent the inevitable disaster. Don’t call an ambulance.
The self-driving ambulance is stuck in cyber-traffic, and the robot-doctor has a virtual headache. Your mother was an implant, so try crying on the shoulder of your feeding tube. Pick up your phone and wait for the menu. When the menu ends, and if it does, you will be given instructions on which end to stick your finger.
Meanwhile your phone is helping itself to your misery. You are being dinged out of your dinghy. You are now a stinky floater in the shitty little empire of AI. Don’t think out loud or you will be forklifted into the “party bus” that is time stamped for the parallel roll drop. You don’t want that!
Your best chance is to be placed in the Holdover. That will leave you room to file a petition for hibernation. It’s just enough to last out one more chance at the restoration permit peel-back. If you get through that door, you’re in pretty good shape to weather the escapement chute. Although, it’s not always recommended unless you are willing to believe you can survive.
Surviving is said to be an advantage. You can try it for a while and see. They may find you hanging from the high bar of happy meals. Profit will finish your lunch and lick your plate clean until a black hole becomes the singularity of your experience.
My advice: Do not stumble in the stampede for the exit. Rolling into the perimeter will keep your head from falling out of the tumbler that is holding your shadow from the flattened page. Once you have slipped out of that, you have a chance in the crowded crater of mud.
LOST RIVER
The river bounds along high twisting gates open to sliding levels of lapping water, wasting no breath of effort. Envy sips at the banks and tangles the wading weeds into tight hanging trestles that lounge about in wordless spindles. When the rain drools over the standing harbor and digs into the belly of the swamp, fear crawls slowly up the side of the levy in front of the spectacle. As levels rise in notable events, weakening winds race here and then there to touch, with helpless hands, their own way.
Still rising on an order of ever-increasing flow, the wagging liquid pulls forward, in great measure, the flow of bending leisure. Sprinkles turn to drizzles. Drizzles roll into rubies of rivulets bouncing on eddies where land lies limp and restless waiting for the incident of time-sensitive capture. The trenches dig their own graves as the spill continues to hide the last window to escape the storm. The tooth of the deluge slides silently over the guard rails and pours the blanket expression onto the open face of the drama. Willful process belies the mean blanket of earth bathing in this whole thoughtless pageant.
The branch in the river bends to pinch the once overflowing cascade of drenching power. Each side lapping up a toehold of angry danger in great gulps of bedrock fever and broken strata. Once overflowing, the river has lost its way, left to wander in aimless satire of motive. The invasion into the hearthstone and home is secure and driven into the brut battle against civil cavity. Once lost, the dream of finding its banks blends into a dark sheet of blank memory and muddy headlands. Aimless wandering before and after, wherein circular swirls, and waves come forth to relive once tidy time and kills without thought. Driven by the splayed will of gravity, temper rises on rocks left over from half-eaten ice. The remarkable appetite of past wagers drowned in chance to become sequestered in doubtful circumstances.
Nothing of the river is left to seed the fortune of space. It was the hammer of impulse that brought the tale to the wool. And moreover, nothing has a full tablet of ceremony to buy the armor that shields the river of banditry. Further taken, nothing is left to merge into the deep. Manners are shed for rumors, and rented badges stand for piety. This shall stand for the eternity of crashing splatter whipped into distraction. Hindsight only craves the living, and merges into the bottom dwellers’ frontal loyalties. No dish is worth serving up the disaster flooding over the past like jellyfish raining down on folded strife. What good would it be to argue against the deluge when the riverbanks are lost forever, and the river is free to spread like jelly into the cracks of panic. This is not lost on me.
President Trump’s Conveyance 1
Under special appointment of the Counsel of Presidential Conveyance and with detailed instruction hereto given by the imperial office holder hereunder, we present the official Presidential carriage for the public view.
The forthcoming description will be in three parts: Starting from the front, we will first describe the Power Plant and its unique arrangement. After, we will show the Interior Appointments and then the Trunk.
Engine Compartment: Lifting the hood, we can see a starkly black void. At the center of that void is a black hole that is only detected by its interaction with a slowly revolving disk of Happy Meals that are being one by one sucked into the black hole at the center. Each Happy Meal is crushed into a singularity which gives out no information other than a small but steady dripping of grease off a narrow edge called, the Steven Hawking Event Horizon. This grease is directed downward in channels that attach to runners under the conveyance that totally eliminates the need for wheels. It is an amazing and great invention by the President Himself and will make cars “Great Again”.
Interior Appointments:
Upon opening the “Great Door” of the vehicle, one is astonished by the luxury of the frescos copied from the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel in splendid detail with one exception in which God is replaced by the President’s very own naked image. An amazing sight!
The interior is not encumbered by a steering wheel or brake and does not need a road, because instead, the environment moves away from the car as it goes forward.
The upholstery is made of smooth black skin that has been stretched tight over the luxuriant cushions and is of fine lamp shade quality. The dash is solid gold as are the door handles and the bed frame of the trysting couch. The carpet is made of woven hair from runway models who won beauty pageants of years past. The servants quarters are dog cages tucked out of site under the bar and in back of the platinum toilet that flushes directly through a hole in the floor. A great gift to the world!
Trunk Compartment:
Pop the trunk and you find a large boot wedge in the crack of the filigree protruding from a vast luggage entrapment cage from which the evidence had been washed clean. The trunk is wallpapered with billfolds from road-kill victims and interspersed with souvenir underwear from rideshare clients. Turn up a corner of the carpet and you will find an oozing labyrinth of pickled cadavers awaiting the shovel. This is the wonderful achievement we have all been waiting for. The beauty of which will never be equaled. What more can we expect from our Great Leader?
Repo Man
Repo man is coming, and he craves your most precious tender. He will devour all the whimper in your closet of liquid jewels. Hearts pound as the creaky door opens to fog as the muffled steps close onto the thirsty perimeter of your esteem. Temper rises to battered limbs pushing against the pages of powdered fear. All cost has crumbled in forgotten realms that cycle beyond the torture of your lost treasure. Repo man dines on your broken back where the shadow of your fever drives your lonely carriage. He cradles the grim load of meat shimmering in the moments of your revolt. Once devised, the live answer is lured into the ditch of ruin.
Pounding against the banter of the pure morning, the fences are mending their way to the luxury of what once was you. They turn and run from the cantering history rendered bold by the haunt of the repo man and his taunt for gold. Wide furrows open into the larder of your wealth. It’s too late to claim the nurturing banditry that lures your eyes forward into dread. The lie solidifies into deep sleep. Nowhere is the obvious so intended to bring the future to boil.
Towns cry as the past drift helplessly into the open mouths of the low tide. Pulled back into itself, the crumbling words piled onto the warped plate of surrender. The repo man returns to the crowd of plenty. One by one, he devours the roads that wander in planetary submission. Those who escape dial into empty static. Ringing hammers sound the alarm on whole points of sadness.
The crash ends the long chain of fast-moving memory. It butts up to the foundations under walls of time. The case is closed. From the wreck in still water, feeble hands linger into the pool of spinal collapse. The thrusts and jolts angle the dagger into a twisting flesh wiggling in the tub of worms. The repo man twirls the end of the shabby cocoon until it unravels in silent defeat. What lies on the rocks below buries the beast of the wild into the temptation of the flame. What’s left lingers on a thread of the orb.
Repo man is not gone, nor are you. The beginning is awake and bouncing on the throb of impulse. The cadence will ring for your terminal thunder.
The Lower Forty-Eight
The lower 48 can’t get any lower. Where does it go from here? They’re tired and worn out. The mountains are running into the rivers on the plains under which gum is stuck so heavy the plows will not penetrate. The gum has embedded fingerprints of unruly children that will record the crimes put forward for all to see. Such crimes flow down the rivers and empty into the heartland.
When the double cross reaches the peaks and the valleys, I’m just the spare tire of changing minds in the last jail that was holding the arms of the bitter recoil. The wasteland empties into the desert angered by the ignorance of the imbeciles wallpapered to the drifting wind. Paper trails are counting the fence posts on the windswept snow drifts helplessly embedded into the national banks, even though there is no need for huge servings and spendthrift shoppers. Telltale armament is jettisoned into the banquet, leaving huge gaps into the framework of the state of being. Pain and emptiness stumbles along the drifting highway where fancy umbrellas purge the nightmare.
Hello! Here I am, pressing my trigger finger over the hole in the afterbirth of the parlor maid, well before the chambers meet. Some people are offended by the halfhearted answers to warning labels welded to the ventral artery still attached to the spleen of the jockey. Why should I worry? I am not the rider answering the quiz. I am the miner harvesting chewing gum under the tables, barstools and desktops for the marriageable clients serving society.
The reachable extremities hand-pick the morning after the great ceremony to bathe in gunpowder before the match is lit. Help is no longer on the way for thieves and babies in their birthright cages dangling over the gushing river. Spindly arms wrapped around their feeding trays; a lone hammer pounds the boiling water to answer no question intentionally posed for the betterment of the somber stanchions. Real people adjust their questions to display their healing powers of anger and standalone principle. Where there are words, there are worms.
The lower 48 has a low life lever wrapped around a button holding its baby bottle brain. Who would have it tucked in bed without an item of time? The transparent protocol surrendered its only son who is in the chill file. The farther I go, the more the well drives deeper into the horns of the cutlet. The strong winds down the wash that stretches into the caves of the deep South will render the drifting continent back onto itself in fierce haste.
I continue my search for chewing-gum under and around the 48 and into the hedges of rusty down ballot backwaters. The DNA extracted will replace the low-sperm-count decimated population of naturally aspirated sex. The clones derived from bubble gum will revive the limping brain drain unrestored from arbitrary deficit. Only once did the tops fall off the kettle and the craters begin to fill the vacuum of peepholes. I will not waste time on ruffled feathers in the drink schedule. I will weave through the lanes of the 48 with all the poison left in the bottle of battle. Why should I wait for the ramping up of the hammer blows before I spin dry the triangles of the south and east? The strands of thread left are not worthy of the torpor in the vouchers.
Sliding down the other side of the Appalachians in melting motion, the people roll into lonely balls of plaster and outlet malls. Running side by side, they resemble dark matter dressed in corn fodder. The will of the land bites deep into the brine of the jelly. First comes the pain and then the taste. It is the warning that is the master of the will to bleed the down market. Wherever it rides the high plains, memory comes first to mind. Thoughtful blisters bloom before the morning glow where every dance is mine to spring. The lace of music is traced back to the road that runs through the timber and dirt of the saw. The hum of fiber on the trail of the upper part of the lower 48 steals the root of the amber doll hanging onto the hungry bear. It won’t hurt to look away from the decision to arm the malaise of fear and strike a soft blow to the format of space.
Why wait for time when lungs need a full cycle of plunder to figure out the bells ringing in the pending disaster. Half of all sparks fly in need of secluded rooms and neighboring halls. There is no recovery when perfect injury is stylish and boring. It will always be performed without scripted surgery.
In the lower 48 muscle cars turn to flab in this walkie-talkie wilderness. The truck-stops restart on revivals to the dead. Space shuttles blast into the farmyards of fried chicken wings soaked in high tea. Nothing is arranged to deliver the root cause of mainstream banditry. The south slips into the gulf of gummy bears and hiccups.
Whole particles devolve into biblical goo with no memory of substance. Finding the words results in the rolling breath of vanishing foundations of glory. I waded into a fresh layer of gum handily plastered to the tender underarms in the waiting-couch of the world bank. First come, first served rules the day beneath the crown of luck. Hiding from nothing, I crouch beside the half-eaten box jelly burger. Why plan for what’s next before any movement might displace the hate-filled preacher delivering the galley of canned placentas. What went wrong? I did nothing to provoke the deadly avalanche of good news.
The black rivers hug the mountains of dirty feet that once ran the marathon of plain talk. Even then I happened to pass into the sea of rotting habits. The status of the low 48 became splayed out into upper and lower, wider and narrower sheets of pancake events. Rockets sputtered to a stop in front of me as I amassed wealth beyond the perimeters of the carnival ride. They frightened me with their stand-alone arms. Reaching out and around the tangled person of infinite regret, the walls build buoyancy into their escape plan. They cannot recover the lost rendering of their armor.
Dry disregard for the high order of the sword is burning in the powder-filled periods of historical paradise. No longer is this regarded as perpetual gossip. It is warm and alive with the occasional handbook of blunt facts. One after the other, they gather around the corner of their deflated hearts and in this way, they no longer exist in sharp contrast. If not for the momentum exerted in my favor, I would have never pillaged myself for the few morsels of fame or flammable bodies. The 48 unraveled pitfalls would be enough to break open the prison of snakes and gladiators imbedded in fine print. But they won’t stop there. They have the fast-track eagle spotter tethered to the eyeball of shame.
Once awarded the goal, they flounder in the disgusted position of criminal bathing. Highways of gold pick at the wound of primary blood. They are heaped in sorrow when all the damage spilled in the mirror turns you into me. I repel from the rope hung from water into the mist of plankton where long streams diverge into the deep. From here I will reside.
Goodbye Mankind
What if I told you there was a very large, organized segment of the world population that is promoting and planning for the expulsion and extermination of the entire human population?
In fact, there is such a group. Their organization intends to bring back a 2000-year-old dead-man who is desperate to be loved and worshiped. It will be his purpose to personally direct and select the individuals to be transported off the planet or remain and be exterminated. He will select only people who are in love with him to be transported to safety. The unloving ones that do not belong to this organization are to be exterminated by perpetual torture with fire. It is to be done in a kind and thoughtful way like casting them down a hole into a bonfire. To help with this effort, there will be a small donation requested, but if one cannot afford it, 10% of your income will be just fine.
This loving group is eagerly waiting for this to be implemented and is preparing for the event with great anticipation and fervor. They have been indoctrinating their children for generations to carry this out, campaigning for compliant politicians, pushing legislation, packing school boards, banning books and anything they can do to make this happen. They freely advertise this scheme as if it is perfectly sane and respectable.
Their racket is so successful at coercion that their organization pays no taxes and is allowed free association and open conduct to instigate barbaric crimes against humanity.
They sell products to their customers to earn vast sums of money for the organization and spend lavishly recruiting more customers. The products they sell are in the form of promises to deliver things to the customer after they die. There is no way of knowing if they delivered the goods, but amazingly, no one has sued for non-delivery yet. The dead are reluctant to sue, and the living have no standing.
Even though the threat to destroy or dislodge the total world population is of a greater scope and ambition than the threat of atomic bombing, and more than any asteroid collision might accomplish, the authorities are oblivious and even eagerly accommodating.
Could it be that the crazies aren’t busted because the authorities and even the organization themselves don’t even believe they can pull this off?
Just think of all the houses and cars left empty and abandoned to rot when everybody’s gone. One thought on that is that now nothing shall be wasted. When all humans are gone, AI will continue to live in your smart homes, ride around in your driverless cars and not miss you one bit.
Premortem Autopsy
To determine the source of malevolent behavior in an entity that shall remain anonymous, I am conducting an autopsy to examine in detail the cause and composition relative to said entity. The body as examined is fat and flabby with a pronounced inflated belly hanging, as in an apron, over what appears to be a small facsimile of something unremarkable except for a mushroom shaped tip.
Opening the torso and gazing at the innards, I can see that the predominant structure is a liver. I chose to examine this item first as it appears to be a pronounced feature. It is covered with a green velvet carpet of fibers twisted into rivulets of cheese wrappers from fast food outlets and wrestling events. I will now describe this liver:
Liver: Reporting on the liver in its state of extreme condition of disarray and flabby ringlets leading to punky vibrating borders it is of a consistency of diet shoe leather. With a pair of low-riding fingers I have dislodged the loose chunks of jelly-like rolls flapping in waves of empty wrappers loosely bubbling up around the neck of the attached wads of creeping tallow. A large chunk fell off and I fed it to a dog. The dog choked but recovered with few permanent disabilities. Further analysis turned up fresh curds of orange paint accumulated in the cracks, hills and valleys over what would seem to require a century or more of application. Notes were taken on this discovery, but they mysteriously disappeared. From here a driveway led to a structure I presumed to be the lungs:
Lungs: These gasbags lead directly to a large mouth that appeared to be detached from natural embodiments associated with cohesive entanglements listed in reference books on the subject of plain speech or loquacious living. Loose associations are in play and baths reveal the main events through graphic implementation of vocal tangibility. This does not always apply here. There are no strings attached to the brain or the liver in view of this associated organ. In other words, the flappers are on their own. In separate notation, however, notable hand gestures seem indictable, though unpredictable
Yes, but is it legal?
A plurality of two interacting elements respectively in dynamic relation wherein both said elements
comprise components including an elongated tubular trunk with an upward extending neck
terminating in a substantially oval object wherein a control means executes through electrical impulse
controlled movement in appendages attached pivotally and rotationally on said trunk; said appendages
including but not limited to two lower elongated segmented sections whereby each said section is
flexibly attached to an adjacent section and contiguous to the trunk wherein addition two elongated
appendages and associated segments are attached flexibly to the upper area of the trunk on two sides
and further including on the lower portion of the trunk an extendable appendage on one of the two
interacting elements being centrally sandwiched between and adjacent to the two lower appendages
and projecting vertically in controlled assignment by the control means relative to the association to the
hereto described second element which has a substantially similar arrangement as the first element
with the exclusion of the said extendable appendage and the inclusion of additional features described
herein as having two conical shaped orbs emanating from the upper area of the trunk and an aperture
located between the two lower appendages for receiving penetration of the extendable appendage in
dynamic interaction through reciprocal intermittent movement for the implementation of hydraulic
discharge and delivery of a known substance into the receiving aperture.
( Written in the language of patent law.)