BPR 50 | 2023
You exist as an idea in your mind.
—Shunryu Suzuki
Must we anomaly upon the coral-billed black swans as they Loch Ness across the pond nipping at their own reflections? Meaning, Fate’s always been pickled. Imagine: a thread buried in a haystack of needles you must extract with your teeth because sometimes the gods demand for their fickle pleasure of us such inanities. Think virgin in volcano or cutting the baby in two. The string a string enshrined in razor fishbone shatterment. What is the nature of a question but a questing? Zedonk aka zebrass aka zebronkey aka zebadonk aka zenkey aka deera—you are all the crapshoot chromosomal proof anyone needs of lightning striking where it’s once before struck. You xtraling kick quitclaim in the gut. Meanwhile high in their bed of ambrosia between orgies the deities look down the bridges of their noses through the stratosphere at our spinning marble. Imagine: lips pierced & bleeding, a tongue of quills at last the last splinter overthrown, the string a helix of red hair. Odd child, fret not; we are all galactic spaghetti phenomena puppeting the particle light. If we’re lucky enough to be alive aren’t we lucky enough?