The Infinite Doors at the Center of Myself
There is a door at the center of myself.
That door belies the existence of many other doors.
This trend knows no sign of stopping.
(I dislike it. But it must be.)
I am really made of little vaults.
Vaults the color of my insides.
(My doors lead to the vaults.)
When things are not my fault I step through the door and close it in my wake and in my wake I
close my eyes and say, well, none of it was my vault.
Luckily, my vault
is safe and full of goods. And only I can see it.
And all you see is text but I can see the outline of my vault.
My goods are little pieces.
They never exceed my skin. I stack them
every volume fewer than the last.
(My goods do not breathe oxygen.)
When I look I cannot find my goods.
My goods are gods whose holes can’t fit a finger.
I am chronically holy.
This is not healthy under any circumstances.
I call my goods my precious gods because I cannot see them.
When I look I find my subtle vault
alone and faith the difference,
like I just believe electrons
by laws of physics.
The Variance Variations
only within the
intelligence to some degree
could be found throughout
every phylum and order
including the arachnida.” ––
Phillip K. Dick, Do Androids
Dream of Electric Sheep?
To dream of going haywire.
When wires bared and fringing
sting bare fingers in repair,
doctor calls the shock
Today andys aren't retired but
and manufacture stops at
Years don't work the same
for us, I track in terms of generation
model and expiry date. Nine ago,
the first self: the i
Mac, 20 in human years.
Real autistics bite, they say.
Realer autistics voight-
kampff at thequiz dot com and
here, You're A Replicant Who
how it goes: the child drowned
swallowed by the family pool,
looked at first like she was dancing