Couch, October 29th, 2016
I saw this former student’s poem on my FB feed and loved the idea that there’s place “where dust bunnies always are…” and that “throwing wasted disguises down a sink drain beneath bed rock and under subway tunnels” is something in someone’s head. This is as different side of the NYC subway. The strange world below in the strange and wonderful mind of Piera. I asked her if I could publish it here, and she sent me screen shots of her phone. You can take a look at her blog here.

Wearing masks drains me like a biting mosquito throwing wasted disguises down a sink drain beneath bed rock and under subway tunnels, through passageways to hypothetical locations indeterminable to any one person, the place where dust bunnies always are and the thing you put down for 15 seconds was waiting.

Its a good day to walk over your own words till they become pulp of nonsense, pulled themselves toward where dust bunnies, shadow puppets and indeterminable artifacts of thought reveal themselves for less true expressions of self, in isolation from indeterminable ways of accurate refusal.

Miscalculated signal stopped wiring writing crossover to another language. Stop having trouble speaking nonsense thats vaguely true, speaking from the place where old masks wear shadow puppets surrounded by dust bunnies, where shadow & light separate & reform as a basic generative cycle similar to exhalation & inhalation.

A variety of broadcast from this consciousness platform, simulated reality, circuit bent through something un-electric. Through a cup of water submerged in uncertainty. you shiver in the place where bunnies wear dust masks, before its too hard to get to, considering the meaningful miscommunication of static itself. Negation cuts through chaos like creeping noise, encroaches itself to form a ring, sphere, cylinder propped up on a stack of books.

Rest in words that half communicate commands negation and shadows cast from dust bunny puppets, taking shape for minutes before reassociation into infinite shifting fields.

Read a poem by Adam C

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