Sunday, July 10, 2011


I get the Nobel Prize stuck into me. The pin goes through my heart. Don’t worry: it’s made of a new material that I just invented. It is both wave and participle. Royal jelly and particle board. It is shadow and light rolled into one like chocolate, riot gear or the end of the world.

I recently invented myself. I am entirely new. A new cloud, a new ant. Hook me up to the flat screen IV and let the 3D beam through my veins like weather. Change my channel. I sleep.

I said, the mind is a lawnmower, chewing up lawn. There was a dog in that yard. That’s why my heart got pinned with this prize. My mind-blades ran over something no one else noticed, but I don’t throw away the bags. I am all new.

Newsflash: Nobel Prize pin insertion causes end of world. The end is very small. You would need giant microrganisms or death-defying binoculars. They thought we would all die. A tiny thickness travels upwards and blocks it. There are clouds over my tongue.

An enormous quail or a bean from the edge of the universe, a universe that still doesn’t have a name. I forgot my newness because I invented it so fast I finished before I began. I said, You can’t kill me because only one of us is going to die.

Yes, you should thank me for receiving this prize with my only heart. My words are shadows in my hands. Now I open them and let the dove that was never there become ssmall and far away. In conclusion, Mr. and Mrs. Committee, I’d like to begin by inventing something else. All this new gets lonely.

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