Cult Wired Hard

America, civilized, cult wired hard. Urban Uranium Ur. See plus-plus, sea town of Gloucester. Hardwired Olson. Creeley wired hard. Mainly framed, mocking programmers’ sea pearl of “mythic child-spray” said Creeley. Olson added, “Misty surge hormonal.”

Energy. Silicon. Ur-Mind projecting 3-D action panoramic Gigi-decibel diffusion.

See: video.  Digital. Video.  Asynchronous. Yet hopelessly linear “on faith.”

Blank.  Blank.  Blank.  And so on (I’m merely paraphrasing).

We were elegant in our sins, and casually dressed. Time happened, and there was no escape, not even to The Word.

An old woman lost her balance in the pharmacy and fell, twice.

“Ma’am? Are you all right? ”

“Certainly,” lifting herself by her bootstraps. “Today I’m writing the President. We can’t go on like this forever, you know. Not another day like this. We can’t go on. ”

Walking in time to the rhythm of madness, less burdened dead than alive, I too am writing the President, in a language other than his own.

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