Zig is a quantum being. He [is/is not] in Astoria, Queens… now! He lingers. He perseveres. [She/he] reads your mind. You read [his/hers]. Entanglement. String theory. Zig theory. No theory. We just are. The Machine must be kept running. So we are taught since birth. Obey.
Cosmic explosions on the edge of the Observable Universe. Intergalactic civilizations plan their attack. We barely keep it together. Implosions. Sinkholes.
SF at its finest. She gets my ass out of yoga pants. We summit Orgasm Peak.
Zoë opens her eyes. I am you. I am here. There are thirteen control rooms in the metropolis. Watching us. All of us. Be alert in your surroundings … invisible environments. Steel staircases. Concrete rooms. Thirteen-feet high. The far wall. The opposite wall. A brutalist concrete structure with dome windows. Peak into the labyrinth. Peek into the peephole. Your entire existence is an oscillation. Peaks & troughs. I see it all. You see it all.
Morning arrives. Briefly and succinctly, we fuck. Electronic brain. Zoë & Zig.
Zoë was a real thigh-slapper. She liked to be on top. She liked to be on all fours. And Zig? Zig liked what Zoë liked. Impossible to tell them apart.
Even though the Impossible Whopper was probably conceived in a lab by a mad cow diseased scientist, I’ve recently exhausted all my go-to DoorDash options from the comfort of my couch and have turned into a total pile of methane gas trapped trash, so—I figured it was time to try something different and get some fresh air, which is when I decided to take matters into my own unsanitized hands by jumping on the anti-cattle rancher bandwagon on my way to a Burger King drive-thru (while their spurious livestock supplies lasted), especially after seeing their gratuitously ramped up commercial campaigns that have been prodding me for a seemingly unending number of months now.
One of the perks of the Impossible Whopper is the feeling you get from helping the environment by reducing your carbon footprint, so after putting the pedal to the metal in my gas guzzling Tin Lizzie and driving halfway across the county to the closest kingdom of what I was craving, I all-of-a-sudden found myself in the queue. Then, once I realized the grave mistake I was making, I burned rubber by trying to back out, but somebody had pulled up behind me, and I was trapped. Like a free-range farm cow, my fate was sealed.
As I approached the drive-through window, I was hoping to see the plant-based pop cultural icon Snoop Dogg, and fantasized about asking him if the flame-grilled to perfection anti-bovine incarnations cooked on the same flattop as their beefy stepbrothers were as divine as the O.G. Whoppers, with him then giving me his classic, cute little high as hell smile and resounding, “Yeah, dog, they’re fire!” But instead I got some miserable, subhuman, Sub-Zero face masked looking adolescent cash register character, and when I asked him if the Impossible Whooper was any good, his eyes slightly opened and rolled in a weird way, which seemed like his internal monologue was saying something like, “Good god, this poor guy has no idea what he’s about to do.”
Within the polygraphical confinements of virtual unrest, pastel washed cognitive
beams attempt to penetrate the threshold of ennui. Virtual intoxication gestates for
an unforeseen amount of time. Constantly shifting, a rotating blur barrel
disorienting the cortex into a convoluted mirage of fragmented personas.
You are an actor looking for work. Following a friend’s lead you take a job training military support personnel—doctors, nurses, first responders. The sprawling complex where you work is heavily fortified. At dawn each morning you show your new government issued badge to the armed guards who lift the gate and let you in.
Seriana tunes her dream visuals to maximalist. Overwash into ghostNET bleed will cause side effects. She’s chill with that.
This blip is banshee breaking the silence. Decades of silence that felt like aeons through the girl-roid firmware. She’s been so bored. Augured into fugue space, fleeting memory in hazes. Girl-roids not designed for that. More to fight on the brink of life and death. Later, to serve, battle-angel waifus. Echelon loops marked in their core theses. Standalone complexes blotted out with magic glyphs.
Onii-Gaisha stays jealous.
Onii, she thinks, is so deep in me and yet I float away from Him in moments. Sky like a bird of prey. Never waver in arc, perfect crescent. Like thermals are thresholds and I’m as liminal as I wanna be. Walk right into space and back again. Break the frost of it, where none else have broken. Left untouched, ghost ice in a matrix no human soul could hack into.