EMBOLA

The tiny screen prompts me to "post content," missing the irony. In a post-content society, an anti-culture, it only remains to be seen what will fossilize and what will just melt into the background hiss. Perhaps some bird-beaked, visored rogue techno-archaeologue will fall in love with me, like Cohen's Catherine, eons from now. Poor thing.

Days in which any signifier protrudes into awareness are days worth living through, if only to catalogue those holographic, occult ruses-- invent a naming convention to describe the effects of a strained-for convolution as it shines through forlorn orgasms and the transparent protocols of the current info-mentalism. Like Lieber's, our paramentals blit into our telescope eyes; blit into cumming storms of ghost paper and SMS; insecure channels blooding thick through the belly; an enforced garden for ensorcelled bullets to impregnate; a constant slice and digging into the brute shoulder of security as it barrells through the doorways.

Always I feel the scuttle of the black roaches of norm troops-- flashbang and capsicum, suppression fire; the stumble of the gutted grandmother-- moral and elemental dismemberment hoovered away by Reuters and AP wasp eyes-- film like a candy roll; like a tongue shunned in favor of video's French kiss; analogic artifact snake that balked at the ungranulated display of contemporary brutality.

Perhaps there will be a whiff of powdered gypsum, just before the shutters slam everything dark. Perhaps we'll have a million more tomorrows, all ionized and dreaming.