Posts Tagged ‘schizophrenia as a narrative technique’

Even in the Year of Magic Hearts, cock and bread alike grew stale. So we traced patterns of reindeer and snowballs and rice, none of which we had tasted, ever, with the pulp of our moms. We divined from these signs a bombed-out virus that meant no change. Such science meant the end of magic, to our chagrin.

Androids claimed their truths were measurable. A new wave of math was dumped upon us tout de suite. The scores were added up, inevitably. Every result meant our brains were misformed. But did that not mean our brains functioned correctly, but in ways inutile to them? It did. It also meant new diets were catapulted from the city gates. They came in boxes and tasted like boxes. We were granted mammy jobs and promptly fed boom beats and hammers to baby androids. They bled along the grass. Their eggy eyes slid into puddles, where they decomposed among the tadpoles and worms. The baby androids looked at us with empty sockets. Flies entered and exited these with snips of wire and circuitry. The baby androids held out their mechanical hands. We took them. We counted the fingers: sixteen, two, hundred. We promised that, at long last, we were friends.

“Granted, you exist…”

The president began so kindly, but ended with his fat declaration of loving constraints. These blocks were allowed us, except and until androids claimed them for storage and thrash zones. Then we had to present ourselves for thrashing. They beat us with the excess steel of unburnt cars. During either the fifth or sixth thrashing of that year, Father said he would never mow again. He never lied, and that is why the weeds have strangled our homes.

A remembrance that newspapers were once slang-termed fishwraps led me to this extended pondering:

Suppose that the chemical print ink of the many thousands of circulated fishwraps drizzled their ink into the scales, meat, and bones of dinners across America from the late 19th through mid-20th centuries. Our triply-great-grandparents in their mass immigrants’ unknowing ate those fish and made love afterward, occasionally hitting God’s magic mark. You might say that any effect of that ink upon their DNA was soon weeded out by statistics. As more illiterates hit our shores and hated papers and murdered the early bourgeois on the come-up and then bred with other bourgeoisie in their attempts to come up and thus ending the practice of reading papers or at least divorcing the purchase of papers from the handle of dinner altogether, the fish-ink problem was solved unwittingly thereby.

But do you suppose that was likely the start or end of human ingestion of clear toxins with the capacity for genetic fouling? Do you suppose we have no more or less conflated the consumption of information with that of food to deleterious effects upon the young and unborn? My guess is that the latest local news scare involving our town’s children is therefore bupkus. Or maybe I have dished the Action News Team a hot lead. Do not watch.

History may be unwrapped in a line that improves the globe. So claim the Happy Pundit Droids of Hope. They deny Egypt. But we have squatted these houses and rounded these blocks and driven alongside the river at least a hundred million days of weather. No matter how calendars get marked, our corpses pose in ancient styles. Whoanow, for instance, had been eaten out and drained, his arms folded upon opposing shoulders and his eyes unfocused like all gods. He bled upon a streetlamp. Right then we would have killed for mummy wraps.

We made plans for the giant cheese grater atop the Yulee Street Market. Options included the construction of a catapult made of our houses and the reboot of MC Bomb. But it put out all that cheese, not real, duh, but edible. We’d been eating hazard gates and manhole covers. Now, tummies filled with yellow disease, we considered voting.

steelbones

Under moonrays, the bone fence ate babies. Dad said to avoid it, but he also said to vote. His mistakes. It, the fence, seemed taller from a distance. Whiter, too. Close up we could see its pinkened planks, and we dreamed of those kids. We danced its way, but it declined every advance. We protested: “We want chrome eyes! When do we want them? Pronto!” Neither fence nor hidden android chief replied. Naturally, we gassed it. The fence exploded in smiles, quite unafraid. Shots rang sourcelessly. Jordan’s knees turned to blood. Thus basketball was finished. At least the rest of us could still sprint. The fence seemed to follow. It didn’t, of course. Fences don’t move. But this one kept on our backs and brains.