17 Aug 2013, 11:28am
Writing
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The Nature of the Center

That Hand is amputated now…

I need a hole (sic) whole broken down owl.
It’s an outlier. A sample of Steampunk.
Like a clock torn open, the second hand poking out.
Press the button to get one. But what is it good for?
What do you DO with it? It sure can’t fly.
We must be in time for the autopsy.

Jules Verne died in the 1900s.
But he has never been more popular. Why is this?
If all gauntlets are flung down, where is everyone?
HG Wells? I need a watch repairman.
An adman, a marketing owl genius.
No one is afraid of the owls. This is sad.

No one is reading the owl pellets,
which is how you learn What did the owl eat?
What did it die from? Chipmunks, dry bones, fur?
At the center of the center of the center
lies a creamy brown chewy brown goodness.
This is what killed the owl.

The flying thing as a metaphor will not do.
We’ll need batteries.
Ray Bradbury, Philip K. Dick. Isaac Asimov.
No need to break the objects, they break on their own.
3 licks or a click is the way you want it.
This is what kills the owl.

Like a smiling monkey eating its own heart.
The last thing you do is regurgitate. The last thing.
The owls regurgitate.
What is happening inside the mechanical dress-form?
Leonardo da Vinci, teaching whole generations to smile.
The turkey vulture is large,

one of the largest raptors in North America.

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