kerchief

DSC_0569
Originally uploaded by faultyplans

we're going to try something here. i'm going to start typing and try not to stop. though timid i am, and embarrassed by such work, i must persevere and write on. let me start what is so fresh on my mind. a blonde haired beauty that has no respect for it. in other words, lillith. in other words storm-demon riding the wind, blinding the young and castrating the elder. weak suffered, strong suffered. the controlling controlled, and the controlled revolted, only perpetuating the controlling. the other jbr. the cuter one, the one who makes people melt. when jaclyn walks into a room, people notice. but do they notice her, or herself? point taken if point be made. the long red carpet, unrolling and rerolling with every step she takes. jaclyn, belly made beautiful, tribal made triangular. the only thing i can say at this point is that if you see what i see, you would see what i mean.

a windy night in downtown philadelphia. around the corner from the dunkin donuts on the corner of some street and broad. a dark alley decorated by GOD oddly enough to fit the gotham created by Kane. and on this street, there is a relfection of the neon flash as the lights above blink on and off. waste, not waste. and floating above this lucid reflection, there was a piece of the baltimore sun, blowing header over footer in the breeze. but it didn't matter. no one saw this, no one knew, and no one cared. no one cared how the bankrupt newspaper company's final issue came to rest in the city of brotherly love. no one cared nor did it matter.

SDC10608

SDC10608
Originally uploaded by faultyplans

A flashing series of lights here say go.
Blue, yellow, red, green then go.
Three seconds you count,
six if you want to show mercy.

Feed the fish through the machine,
a blade rises, splitting one whole into three parts.
One part spine, two parts meat.
Icy sockeye salmon minutes before were in big bins,
totes holding thousand or two pounds of fishy a commodity.
Slimy sockeye salmon minutes before were swimming,
befuddled in a pool of filth and blood.

This place is genocide.
Extermination in action,
capitalism at its best.
And I sit and become a drone of the system,
a grunt of the establishment.
A system i try now not to support.

Maybe later the same bureaucracy will create genocide on me,
sell my fleshy and meaty sides to a hungry group of piggies.
Around the world, they will partake in the pleasurable experience.
As salmon is filleted and sculpted into delicacy,
Grim a-la-mode will be served.
Caucasian with rice and a touch of lemon with butter.

A light will blink,
blue, yellow, red, then green and go.
A driver will feed an icy me into a machine,
a mechanism to debone me and remove my innards.
A single slice with split one whole into three;
one part spine, two parts fleshy homo sapien.
Latin for "wise man."

a long time between this and that, but this is this and that was that.

SDC10482
Originally uploaded by faultyplans

One fish, two fish, red fish, yellow fish. There isn't a single blue fish, and the Doctor would be upset. But when one fish becomes one thousand fish, and that thousand becomes two, and the red fish start to mix with the yellow fish, who could even care?

Wrap the the thumb with two band aids, trust the acetametaphin and ibuprophen, then cut. Stand on the line, stand and ponder eternity, or time, space or even breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Deluxe. But what is breakfast when the first meal of the day is at midnight and its something like tacos?

Cut one fish, two fish, three hours and five hundred fish have miraculously gone past with two fresh slices taken away from each.

Ponder that sleep deprivation, I know I am as I write this. Think about those around you, critique their cuts as your immortalize your own. "My cut is so grand, his is shit on the bottom of a horseshoe." Watch as they correct the cut you made. Oh, humility. My dad mentioned something about that when we sat about the breakfast table in high school. Tacos for breakfast today/tonight/whenever. Tacos for breakfast/dinner/lunch/whatever.

Think of those plans you made. Better yet, think of the plans your planning when you get this massive paycheck they mentioned. Feel that sudden rush. Cut one fish, two fish, three fish consecutively. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants to cut more, let him have a few. Cut two more then give him one. Five minutes later, tucker out, give him twelve in a row. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants you to cut more, let him have a rest.

This is the front line, the line we've no option but to hold, and no one told us to do so except for the natural condition... hive-mind. The bug-condition I call it. Industrialization at its best. Like some early Ford factory, a bunch of migrant workers from various places coming together for one common goal. Management says the fish. We wee folk say the moola. Is the use of my left hand an accountable sacrifice