Geist's blog

The fire in her bones crawling through her head

She swore off feeling minimal

The short hand stands for lost chances

a timespan

a lockstep

These quotes kept close to chest cavities

I swear they're nothing special

I once met a man in love with a paper mannequin. They did not show public emotion for fear of causing one to catch fire or the other to gush blood. They only kissed when no one else was around. The paper eventually broke up with him and disintegrated into origami. Her bits and pieces are at the mercy of storms and air currents to this day.

Four score and fifty bodies ago we asked not what these cell bodies did for us but what we could do for their organelles and other such essential operational structures and that was a turning point, the revelation essential to a forward march toward transhuman essentials.

"Cry," he said. She laughed and said, "Make me." He did.

He unhitched his watch from his wrist and held it out for her to take. Its silver had blisters as if it had survived a cremation, ashen and dark.

"You know this." The smile was not false like it would be had he enjoyed the act. It was understanding, compassionate. A flat brow and a shaved face can only hide so much these days when emotions are a dime a million.

I met a man in love with a paper mannequin. They did not show public emotion for fear of causing one to catch fire or the other to gush blood. They only kissed when no one else was around. The paper eventually broke up with him and disintegrated into origami. Her bits and pieces are at the mercy of storms and air currents to this day.

I am a cocoon. I am a chrysalis. I am encased in jade and ready to fracture. Follow the cracks to the core and burrow at my naivete, kiss my scars and bite at my stitches, tug at my innards, squeeze my guts like toothpaste tubes until I see reason. Whose god is right isn’t so much a campaign as it is a gamble. My soul is a series of chemical reactions. I see no future in spirituality. Yet it lingers, a melody amongst the movements of this symphony, one strain of madness methodology.

The Rows are the Rows are the Rows Upon Themselves