The Instrumental Becomes Intrinsic If You Let It

Luck I by Joy Sullivan

AIMEE WAI

Gently I tuck another idea to rest in the mausoleum - an archived document, dead.

Melodramatic, I loudly intone that I had the best intentions to finish the work, and yet…

Damnit, it happened again.

There is no I.

am i the central nervous system? the brain, the skin, the eye? the microbiome in my gut, or stardust in the sky?

the soul (what soul?), the heart, the breath, the hormones in my blood? the shadows splashed on Plato's wall, the people that I love?

the clothes on my back, the name on ID, the carbon in my bones? the air i breathe unconsciously, the place that i call home?

or am i just the nowhere man, the woman so alone? i am the dreamer of the dream, the - I - in i don't know

alexander heir

god is the space where God used to be

Who am I meant to be angry at now?

dostoyevsky // nicola yoon // ada limón // john steinbeck // avainblue // sylvia plath

listen, the silhouette of a person is more human than AI will ever be. can you hear me? you are a body, the soul is nothing without the body, there is no consciousness without time and space, and in the computer exists neither. is this thing on?

the trees might be changing… but what about you?

WHIMPER, CRY, YOU KNOW WE'RE SCARED

Psychedelicatessen 

End of every easy street 

Serotonin slicked sidewalk skating 

Scar scratched snacktimes

New town home

Ammonite teddy bear touch

Old as prophet bones 

Soft as a rotting embrace

Symbiosis on homesick string 

Hold close to my home-heart

And whimper and mumble 

Into nostalgic oblivion