[Act 1 – Supersymmetry of Beautiful Things

“I”, it said:

However bold the affront maybe be

I destroyed myself so I could see

acting out was plan part A

never saw another way


a perfect machine I said it was, and none could really argue with the results: it made itself, then made the rest, and kept right on making more and every time got better at it. I said a lot of things and even when the contradictions were obvious they were correct. But I’m not here-


This was version 1.0 of the machine

                the perfect replacement that built itself

                                Like Voltron, It formed the head

                A gestalt built from a million tree branches

It decided if it was a masterpiece or not


Those are the characters in this act, and now for the stage setting


Five plates arranged in a pentagram at a round table, each one at the fore with two forks and one knife, a circular on a rectangular on a circular in a house. This is the shape of the thing. The backdrop is adolescence tempered with a temper to ignore the temperature of imaginary hot lava on the floor.


It is dawn, and everyone is sitting down for dinner in the year of our lord, ninteeen hundred and so long ago no one even bothered

to count


important days

except holidays

which never were important if everyone celebrated them all. Same present to everyone: a day off

When it arrived, that day, the instructions were assembled.


Semiotics and symbols: A primer


When everything is a symbol, an icon with meaning, the arrangement of these discrete elements are what compose our process for decision making. Lets use a few basic elements and make a decision together.




A foe

A friend

A reason


Each one carries meaning, and we assemble our decisions by putting these in an order that compounds to a new symbol: the result. The first act is one result from these elements which recreate the entire universe over and over.


A Friend [acted upon] compound elements [a foe] metamorphosis [reason] yields [silence]

The secret is invented with secret ingredients. Patent pending self-invention.


Act 1 Cont;


The secret was served for dinner and no one even knew: five plates full of it and eaten with a smile. Reassembling the elements. Self-creation. gestalt. Voltron. Get it?




Lets talk about the Voight-Kompff test for a second here.

Deckard was unaware of the significance of the Unicorn in his memories, or of the dreams he had. Despite these missing facts, he treasured them without understanding. Without empathizing with the origin of these memories, could he pass the same test he uses on the replicants? The question everyone asks, to which there is no right answer, is whether or not you can assert your ego on the symbols enough to change someone else’s reality from what they believe to what you want them to believe. Who gives a fuck what Deckard thinks? Roy batty was a beautiful lie told with the truest words. Superhuman in every way, and we still can’t see what beauty his eyes showed us in our ugliness. Voight-Kompff is Gods racism against humanity.


Act 1 – Final Scene


The blinking of an eye is an act that your brain blocks out so frequently, you may as well suffer from chronic amnesia. Long-term purposeful ignorance. We forget thousands of things every day and, without knowing they’re gone, are unable to question whether they ever existed.


Roy Batty [pursued] all his friends are dead [Deckard] shadows [his purpose] hears [truth]


When the curtains drop on this scene, the audience is given the chance to ask.


Act 2 – What are Beautiful Things if not Destroyed

“You,” it said:


I see you in the way

sunlight hits your photos.

The warmth

to my touch

says your name.


Time chases it’s own tail around the outer edge of that circle while the left hand remains ignorant of the right. Sometimes they cross and fold and trade whispers before one runs ahead and the other lingers. I want to tell you, for sure, that photos fade, stars burn out, and people die. The only value is in the impermanent and fleeting.


A tune carried for just a few bars


 the first half of a joke


                            Thanksgiving dinner before he




{“I must take a stand for what I know it right”}

I had a wonderful time once. Let me tell you about it:


We [together] at the beach, the only [happy] in every direction. [Giraffes] walked around without a destination before [together] the bus to nowhere. [Chuck Taylors] the long road home [together] I didn’t ask [secrets] I found out but [together] the world was small. [Lust] our lips [together] her bed [sex] until [together] the morning.


what remains of this memory

1) Some of this memory is a necessary fiction

2) What is fiction replaces what has been forgotten

3) More of this is forgotten than remembered

4) every remembrance destroys some truth

5) The more this memory is destroyed, the more precious what little truth remains


It is forever impossible for me to know what pieces are true, fabricated, or gestalt. I can never know what happened, and so I must place equal value on all things of this memory. Truth and fiction come to occupy the same value to [giraffes].


This brings us back to Voight-Kompff and Bladerunner again.


Roy wanted us to see humanity for the truth he chose to believe in.

Quote: “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.”


His short life, forced upon him to bear the burden humanity refused to bear itself, full of a precious few moments of peace and, upon seeing the period of the sentence looming, saw what we will never see.


Codacil Intermezzio:

Lets catch our breath for a moment and discuss what symbols I am using before we forget.


[] these are infinite distance

this is the top of the hill

this is the tennis ball tumbling down the ramp



Act 3 – Idiolect of Remembering

“They,” It said:


A shadow passed across the sun,

a hand clapped alone,

a blind and deaf lumberjack,

where does it live?


There is a whirlpool around trying to remember a time when I remembered trying to remember something forgotten. Two mirrors facing together. The mental trick of telling someone they are now aware of their tongue


Just like you are now


                        but somehow, you know that there must be some texture to it. A single memory wrapping around like a moebius moment. There and gone in a blink


            You are aware of your blinking


of an eye, but in that split-hair moment of fact and fiction, its turned on its side and you see the forest and the trees.


Everyone was a child once, but no one can remember when they became a child. That moment when you switch on for the first time and realize there you are, a being! That moment is lost and we only know that it must have happened.  Where does it go


You are aware of lost time


when you can’t see it anymore?


Aside: When memory is destroyed in the recalling, and the fiction wears away after disuse, and the realization is gone along with them, what fills in the blanks? Are we the author of our narrative, or the reader of a fiction built by the world around us?


[Admission] I ask questions. I feel poetry should ask questions. Prose should ask questions. Questions should ask more questions. Answers should force questions. Statements should provoke questions. Silence is a question. Noise is questioned.  [answers] are never forthcoming.


Act 4 – One Feeling at a Time

“we,” it said:



I know someone said my name. Pavlov spent our entire lifetime to train us to respond to it, even when we aren’t listening. More uncommon name, easier to notice. Someone said my name. Laughter from a table somewhere. Someone is looking at me looking at someone. I feel warm. Nothing fits right. my hands shake. I look at my hands and wonder what they did. Someone said my name. Everyone is looking at me and I hate them. Who the fuck said my name.



Someone said my name. I don’t know what I did. I can’t remember their name. What if I did something wrong. What if everyone sees how bad I’m sweating. Can they smell me. I smell me. I feel drenched. I feel hot. Everyone must be able to read my mind. They know I’m a fraud. I know I’m a fraud. Everything is a lie. I am a fiction. I hate my name.



Someone said my name. They are looking right at me. I don’t remember their name. I remember everything they write, and they write about suicide like someone who has an armchair understanding of loss. I remember l of the people I’ve lost. I remember all of the pets I’ve lost. I remember all of the happiest moments I’ve lost with hideous hindsight. I remember when I lost myself.



Someone said my name. I wish I could remember names better. I wonder, if I could remember their name, how long a friendship can survive. I remember when I used to have friends. I remember where they all went. I remember how long I pretended like it didn’t happen. They say my name still. I’m not around. I remember when I was. Someone always says my name.



Someone said my name. I wish I could forget my name. I wish I could have a new name. I wish my name was normal. I wish I was normal. I wish Someone would say my name the right way. I wish someone wanted to say my name. I wish I could say my name. I wish my name meant something else. I wish I was around when people said my name. I wish the people who said my name wanted to.


Act 5 – The Ball Comes to a Rest at the Bottom of the Hill


There once was a man who said “I” and,

There once was a man who said “You” and,

There once was a man who said “they” and,

There once was a man who said “we” and,

There once was a man.


The plainness of it all is what really staggers I. Like running fingers over the spines of a million million similar yet wholly different books without titles and plucking out the exact one you’re looking for. The strings threaded between every pile are invisible and there are no cards but sometimes, when you pull one out, you get a thousand more right along with it. Pick and choose at your own risk.


The complexity of it all is what really staggers I. There is no way to know what anything is before you pull it out and look at it and all you can do is hope that what you pull out is as accurate as you want it to be. There is only one copy and it is constantly under revision and you are not the editor. Sometimes you reach down and pluck one out and it’s blank and you wonder: Where did I go? You try to remember.


You can never go back home, but you can always visit.


Final Scene: Dinner


[dinner] pentagram has been completed. [discussion] was involved and [family] present. [Questions] while [food] before [disapproval] made [sadness] and [regret]. [Food] was [food] but [fondness] despite [bad]. [Family] [string] [cards] [questions] [eating] [escape] [cleaning] [sleep]


The fiction was better than the fact. looking back only made things worse [much much worse].


Everything is cleared away, and this long, wandering thought comes to a close in the blink of an eye, ending the same way it began: words on one side of



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