Devil Console

"What are you listening to?"
No time to lie-
"Backstreet Boys," she blurts out. Her voice is her sister's. It happened sometimes.
He smiles, and, though small and placed without intention, this gesture is, nevertheless, placed just so as to scatter him out into a collection of particulars: a name, caught and bagged; a way of leaning without slipping, precarious tectonic laziness; hair kinked from being pulled from history, prehistory; a certain ease--


But perhaps this is also just what we call human: a collection of particulars, always. It is only the distances between them that we busy ourselves with agreeing and disagreeing over.


The secret to chopping quickly and efficiently is to forget you have fingers. This way, when you think of the knife, which you must in order to use it, you will not think of the knife in terms of fingers, in terms of the inevitable bloodsliceslip (because this mindset is not meant to keep this from happening, it is meant to economize and make efficient) and you will cut as knife, only, and not as man--but let us not forget what tools are for: the knife will cut faster, the apples will cook sooner, and the man will be fed sooner, and this is better, certainly. All roads lead back to the flesh; most especially those of polished metal; most especially those grafted in.
And perhaps this is what we will call posthumanism in the kitchen.


Devil console gunn cum fuh me
gunn cum fuh me wen no utta lookin
wen no utta dea tuh see dem bright devil e-yuhs
no utta but me
it lookin at me
wit dem ten windeh e-yuhs
an I kno
gunna take-uh me 'way
an wen yoo fine me in deh mornin
yoo not fine me
I be taken
yoo not seein me--
yoo seein wutda devil console dun decided tuh leave uh me.


/hurderp


Behind me
a boat
with sails made outta
bedsheets
handkerchiefs
and
...
snot.
/can'ttakeyouseriouslyworthtwoshitslol.