The Bionetwork Blanks

Imply the body to something beyond the body, from ground to floating, from the chemical swap of spit to thoughts wraithlike in their delicate coats. But enter the televisual, the virtual, the skin skinned, the sun neon in this cave. If only the fleeting, the pop-up, the chatting would drop like concrete into our cabinets of tissue. If only the copies stop reproducing, and we pick ourselves up from the plush carpeting, rewind our knees.

Light hums in the belly of the machines, myelin scarred and unable to pass messages through our bus stops’ toxic skirts, end stops, camouflage. 9/11 tendered, carceral, a skin with pores so deep they fit planes through and come crashing down, backbone through facades, surfaces on the verge, surfaces that distend like over-watered lawns. Gloss the seemingly spontaneous event.

The children freeze at their darling desks. We try to pry their fingers open, but the Play-doh in their palms warms. Click on Suicide Girls to see salty skin spread boldly over its scaffolding, stick to its origin like spilled glue. Audiences grope 9/11 like this: dislocated unease, hawaii of mourning. A lap bar falls across the gut. Intestines wind like a rope into a basement. Close the door.

Pull back the skin to prove I am full of the working wet equipment of space. Chemical embrace, nitty-gritty. Blow-up dolls dreaming of a blood theater. Each bomb an albatross necklace, each cluster a communication. Put this pinecone in your pocket. This is a challenge. The seams seem into you.