Stranger Moving

A most noteworthy octogenarian has moved
(out or up is anyone’s guess
in spite of what they might profess).
The bodies that he did possess are numerous

and moving on…

like we who’ve heard by way of name
it’s something something Bowie Bush –
for those who’d thought they knew his game
it’s Ziggy’s Spiders he did push.

I will not deign to’ve seen him move
right up until the end, and still
going from day into evening, and now
peacefully still at night.

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T. the Terrestrial

Information, evidence, and advice are like paper and water. At some point, some is needed. Maybe just a bit, maybe a lot. For a while they were all saved in their receptacles — folders and sheet metal drawers and plastic bags and bottles — brick buildings and carbon steel cisterns. Unlike info & evidence, the unconscious has always gotten clouded, which is convenient to the collective, whether we know it or not.

They had bought it and screwed it. By the time he had returned he found America again after an unlimited supply of cigarettes but no more lighting bugs. Turns out the mark of the beast is a subscription to the general worldview otherwise understood as conventional, which also just happens to operate under the slogan Convenience, or the opposite of inconvenience right up until the indistinguishably ephemeral transition of time has elapsed when its circumvention becomes next to impossible, well-stocked with the collateral branding of HR-consumers not sporting industrial strength oven mitts over their aprons of lead and tin foil on top.

Every drip of tech was courtesy of Hangout Ltd, who were really just the above-ground conduit section of much deeper logistics, literally, though they were also responsible for marketing, which required the steady infiltration of media big and small.

R&D began under every airport, not just DIA. Neatly enough, the deeper the level of operations the earlier in the process of the theory of three economic sectors, falsely attributed to economists. Fourastié’ would have categorised our middle earth as a primitive society, which couldn’t be further from the fact that its mining operation is the most sophisticated part of the process, without which you’d still be talking telegraph. Wherever in the underworld this work is done, its workforce outnumbers the corresponding tertiary toilers ten to one. Thank the grey gods for cloning.

Those beings can wait for millennia before they harvest the horror that is their feed. It’s hard to call theirs patience when you consider that each species has its strongest relationship to a respective span of time. A mass fear potential great enough to be worthy of the word feast is what they await. A feast to end all feasts. Until then a discipline of snacking on what there is going around.

You could call them ecological even if they disregard how their prey fall for all the toxic trappings and heap waste into every facet of their future. Of course cognitive dissonance floats somewhere in the earth-bounds’ clouded unconscious, but if convenient wisdom knew of a vice unworthy of investment, they wouldn’t be dropping so much dough into big tech’s collection basket while praying for help out of the mess they won’t stop making. Should the terrestrial tend to confession, their penance must be to pretend to have done due diligence by deputising their most self-important and mocking those among them that they feel refuse to punish and sustain them concurrently with professed love and enabling abandon. And yet, that’s the only thing that the delegated do universally.

“Our guest here has just come from the New World.”
“Oh, yeah? How is the New World these days?”
“Old. Getting old.”


The ways to express the future in English are vast, but for course purposes it is best to stick with will and going to. Course purposes are almost always unfortunate, based on curriculum shaving to forge the division of labor. But what’re y’onna do?

Proskauer-Str. Ecke Frankfurter-Allee, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1906/2018

Clogging Frankenstein

Waning wash of melatonin, like a dose of fifty-thousandths of a measure of something else that’d have you taking back shit you hadn’t stolen if you weren’t bathing paralyzed in a sweaty bed of uncertainty,  like the anesthesia’d worn off where one can feel a residual soreness unsure if it’d been administered to hide; maybe it’s a pain brought on by nature’s painkiller. Pain killer. Pain driller. Liminal paranoia perhaps, but captivating either way. Both ways. Ineffably this symbology has come to the threshold of the word just to tease the senses abreast of the sensation.So much can be done to a nervous system. So much can go wrong among one of bazillion blips in certain allegiance headed right. You don’t think under your exhaustion; don’t think you’re exhausted because of the ceaseless struggle underground to maintain attendance along your current wavelength. No, think that. Then think something else. Then think things through.


Re. +49301785853304

Short answer (text-like version) in the 1st of the following sentences: No, I don’t. As a matter of fact, to begin the comprehensive explanation, I let it lapse only relatively recently after the pre-paid SIM card I had been using since my arrival in 2002 had its Terms of Use amended to limit using the minimum loadable amount of €15 within six months instead of what had been for over fifteen years a year-&-a-half. Ironically enough, the only chargeable offense I used the phone for was to write texts, which were 30 cents a piece, so the fifteen euros had over all those fifteen years lasted at least through a couple of terms just inside the entirety of their eighteen months.

Now one might ask (and, trust me, more than one has) why I never just purchased a contract, thereby enabling a more frequent use at a reasonable price, much more convenience, etc., etc. This question crucifies itself upon the assumption that I would have used my phone more if I could have. But it was precisely the way I was using it that led to the realisation that I not only didn’t need it but simply didn’t want it.

Nevertheless on 29 September 2017 at 1:49pm, I was loathe to load an additional €15 to prolong the first new expiry and to avoid losing the 15+ that was already on it. ‘Use it or lose it’ was the agitated cogitation until on 29 March of this year when I lost that entire thirty-something because I didn’t want to prolong the anti-ecological cliché any longer. Obviously I wasn’t using it to make many calls or write a significant number of texts. That last time it served an emergency is in a cloud of forgotten memories.

I have a landline. I won’t go so far as to make the hereditary affirmation that if it were up to me I wouldn’t even have that. It is at least partly up to me, it comes with the Net, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise. My ability to tele-connect makes the expenditure of both the fiat transfer and cognitive tax justifiable. The sometimes inconvenient convenience remains worthwhile. I am all-too aware that the industry I therewith support is manufacturing a world into which I will no longer be able to venture if I don’t change my immobile ways. So be it.

The sole subsequent mobile telephone that I purchased as a replacement of the first one (solely because the former’s display no longer displayed legible lettering) and into which I stuck the SIM card — which was what I’d really purchased on that summer day at a flea market — has become anyway little more than a camera, albeit digital and of quality quite limited, the bulk of primary evidence of which can be found in the hover images here.

The longer background (should this be (or remain) of any interest) is that basically I bought my first mobile telephone used at Boxhagener Platz Flohmarkt, not because I wanted it, but because the first guy I wanted to book T & me grimaced when I said, “No, but I got an email address.” I got the phone. We got the gig.

The most interesting tidbit of this tale only occurred to me as recently as a couple of days ago when I turned on my one-time to me embarrassingly chic flip-phone for its other primary purpose — to be able to track the time for the three hours that followed. A new message appeared. “SIM nicht registriert”. This displayed so prominently for so long that I actually almost wondered if I’d ever be able to see the clock again.

So from 29 March of this year, when my moola minima vaporised into an un-spendable pun, to apparently exactly two months later, I was nevertheless able to receive calls and texts. Now, the final expiry of expiration must have been last Tuesday, I’d wager, 1:49pm. I hadn’t turned it on from the previous Friday until Wednesday so I make this assumption based on the always accurate carrying out of the Terms which this time, seemingly arbitrarily, granted me an additional two months’ passive use. I’m sure in that time I would not have received those few texts in tact… but for some goddess’ grace period.

What occurred to me between Wednesday and now is that the SIM card was never really registered, at least not to me. Having bought it used, I even had to have its digital lock picked by the kind of pro who can do such things. Not that I hadn’t been trackable all this time, but at least in the court of law, I’d’ve had a better chance than someone who’d signed their name along a bottom line. Or I might’ve had the least of lesser chances and been locked up for purchasing a stolen phone and going so far as to assist in the achievement of its unlawful unlocking and, not least of worst, evading the law that says you’re not allowed to use your devices without allowing your being traced & tracked by name & number. At any rate, as far as I can tell, +49301785853304 is over & out.

The machine that houses it, however, remains reusable. Indeed. The following corresponding hover image comes by way of an inadvisable shimmy to the depth of this one-time riverside swimmery (I wudn’t walkin’ that plank, palms & knees for me) and the use of that former courtesy phone of persisting paltry pixelation. Quite conversely, it is only the row of postal addresses of the rooftops in the background that remain from this photograph:

“111” – Osthafen, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1907/2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: Rücklaufsabruch

glkjögdlkjgsdlökjgdlkgflkj = Diese Sammelei von Erfahrungen

Dass nun professionelle Redensart von mir erwartet wird, biete ich nur noch prospektiv die von mir eines Tages eventuell bei Ihnen weit und breit angesammelten Erfahrungen. Wobei Sie sich schon gut vorstellen dürften, wie ich nach einer Zeitreise hin und wieder zurück in unsre Gegenwart Ihnen über all diese fließend bunt und spannend erzählen könnte. Die von mir bis dato gesammelten Erfahrungen interessiert kein Schwein, auch nicht das professionelle, im Stall auf den Tod wartend… nichts für ungut!

„Bis dato“ ist ein formeller Begriff, oder?