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Bitlets 5I have room to move;that is the benefit of emptinessof outer, inner, and personal spaceand the downside of having nowhere to be.
Bitlets 4I want to find the search resultsthat never show up when they are neededand put them in fortune cookies:"The" is not a relevant search term and was not included in your search"Who" is not a relevant search term and was not included in your searchLucky numbers: π, Pythagorean Theorem, 1337, 4/20, and the end of the Mayan Calendar.
Bitlets 2When I sleep, I sleep for two to four hours;last night was from ten 'til two and four 'til six.I come from a lineage of paramedics,but even they are conscious enoughon twenty-four hour shiftsto not be sleep-deprived.On their forty-eight hours offa paramedic might drink.This is an all-too-common occurrence.Maybe I visited the ambulance bay too many timeswith bloody words and concussed slursand I think they're drinking becausethey know when to stave off sobrietyand when to moderate sleep.
Bitlets 1I wonder if all this searching for profoundnessjustifies being a proficient writer?Working so tediously for so few words—I think I found a noun for that before:inefficiency.
The Cuts on the Back of my HandsOn my Saturn-ringless fingerI have an accidental cut identical to onethat was indexed on another knuckle;the cuts heal at different rates.On the finger I point at couples with the cutfrom cuticle to wrinkled knuckle now hasthe seamless texture of skin, but withthe mark on the finger the ring slides,the marriage of incisionand post-op still lingers.The digit I point with is always busierthan the ring finger I plan to use,someday, every day.And whether it is the scientific methodor a quirk in my hallucino-geneticsthat has inflated my interestin the cuts on the back of my hands,I consider the possibilitythat healing doesn't come with time,it demands action.And the far more active I become,the faster I will not recognizethe clean-cut look on the back of my hands.
Paintwritten WallsI.Militant files in manila foldersare shelved with the pianoand accordion binders.The book ends and stackeddocuments are scaffoldingon the shelf that is proppedagainst the cubicle wall.The walls need to learnto stand up for themselves.He is sure of this.The resonant hum of flickerand fluorescence is a hymnfrom the hymnals of Teslaand a psalm from Edison.The hum, he claims, willcareen him into carelessness.So paint poet, paint.The pages areempty,grotesque from aging,and when hereturnshome froma career but not acalling he will paintthe barren pagesinPrometheus’ andDante’s smudged hand-prints;he’llspeak withtexturesthat extend offof thetongue.He’ll stainandsmear his hand-writing,burn and tatter the edgesof pagesuntil tautand crisp—untilhe has taught these wallsto listen and talkback.Paint us a poem, poet— paint.II.She cradles the creases in herclothes carefully. Her charredfingernails sw