Post Apparition al Conch Pets Puree

Pack your Ermines, Fossy, for the plane of immanence is leafing to day...[!]

Just because you touched it, performed surgery upon it, doesn't mean its essential value, or meaning has changed ~

much.

Well, we do what we can, and kill what defeats us,

no wonder ideas of circularity proliferate.

Q: Are you getting on, or ~

getting off?

Like I said, My Name is Robert Heinecken, and I am dressed as Bern  Porter.

No narrative is good narrative. No nous is good nous.

You do the math.

Sometimes our 'Contemporay Chthontic" mesets its own Boonmi Jollity.

This green bean for instance is already in the can!

Happy Days is just South Park

with a dong in its mouth.

FULL GLOTTAL STOP.

My name is Gerald Minkoff:

O VIDEO E DIVO

SOT OH PHOTOS

The weird thing is, he never quite falls in the hole, it's the movement as stasis

that orders the framing, but as any good cliche' knows, it's time to jump chimp.

I'm looking at a marketing angle. How do I package revolution to make it prophetable?

How do I keep the liberation all for myself, whyle exporting its hylic interface to those backwards chaps on the front actually producing the source.

Shouldn't we just go ahead and tell them where we got the barcode idea in the first place?

Polarities are the basis of our orderly procession around the sun.

The delicate dance of oppressed and oppressor is perennial.

It's a ritual that no one can transcend. We're all forced to participate

in the living emblem of "meaning as production".

Break a leg kid!

But how could something so sweet be so utterly without use, or value.

Don't worry about that, the blacks will fill in all the necessary examples.

At either end of the planet, the magnetic field bunches up, rebels, becomes not unlike an invisible stele.

What they don't tell you, is that Ulysses was the Siren, and the sirens were all old sea captains

out there on the rocks

BEGGING FOR GROG.

You know. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's conceptual writhing.

It's crippled the whole amnilotic gluid.

The wheelchair races down the side of Kheops in midnight blue.

I keep waiting for a sign, or for one of the professors to walk up

and mention tea to this bag.

I walk around with no concrete knowledge of how to build a clock out of matchsticks.

Sometimes a metaphor is just an excuse to make a joke. Sometimes a joke is just an excuse to make a metaphor, so please excuse my jocularity. My passion is monkeying around with images.

So much happens anymore, it makes whatever happens seem so small, but every object, and every intervention, every item on the surface of the earth remains the same unique consistency, or

kunst-systemcy.

I don't know what to call culture anymore.

General Electric?

beading omphalos networks for virtual thinkers?

Breasts for the Museum?

I'm on your side (whoever you are).

Here, see, I printed out every word in the Zapotec dictionary for you to read.

My columns usually have tiny robotic mermaid medusas inside which stylishly connect their snake wigs into stair cases for bubble golems, but I'm getting used to the banal rubric of the cube, the puzzling silence of the lens of science, its signs, nascence, and caress.

I can make dew with an easy contour going nowhere.

I'm alive aren't I?

And after all, how many songs are there really.

With seven senses, or twelve or whatever, the menu in this restaurant

is really fairly limited.

I salute every chef

his prawn nosed chocolate sufi

laying in the carrot ice cream shoe.

!RADIOACTIVE SUSHI!