knup

 little fly upon the wall

aint you got no clothes at all?

aint you got no undershirty?

aint you got no pantyskirty?

ooh

aint you cold?

mirror accounts, check. the machine cannot handle brujeria, you can’t lie to a machine. as much as you cloak, the thought already changed and flew off. bot psychology is brilliant, engage, draw information, disguise it as other questions. yes and no does not exist in my mind. yes please, no thank you, do. 

the alternate space of social media has flatlined. accounts are clones or have gone back to pre phone application. i used to think i was one step ahead of everyone, now i know i’m coming up the rear. dog days are over. if i could take back all my bread crumbs would i or could i? 

jealousy has never been my problem, envy is a sin that i do not indulge, pedastals, pediatricians, pedestrians. pure kids don’t know shit. if the gaze is not met, if the eyes don’t smile, and that’s what we need atomic energy to beam from skylink at me for, it’s not my business. 

what people have stolen from me, i give away. for free. and then i sleep on it. 

direct energy weapon

 welcome to my botshop, where we unravel what was said to whom, when, how and why.

i do not like telephones. i use them. growing up the boonies my family had neither television or telephone. we barely had electricity that we had to illegally draw current from the other side of the river. when a phone finally arrived in1984, it was too late. by then i knew books, and time travel, and phillip k dick, orwell and national geographic, time-life series, reader digest, people. i knew leagues under the sea, and secret gardens and girls just like me who grew up without modern things on prince edward island. 

the apparatus was a rotary, beige and since the conversations cost colones by the minute, it was decided only my dad could use it for business. he was a builder and owned every fun gadget for construction ever invented. when the land line came, he proccured, from one of his boxes of tricks, a small lock that was placed on the dial.

that same year, i was removed from my tuition free, spanish language alma mater, conservatorio caastella, and placed in the most expensive american country day school. my new english speaking friends had to call me because i was not allowed to call them. 

in both schools i was the weirdo who got good grades without studying because i paid attention while under my desk i was reading sallinger and jean m auel and doing miss daisy.

my pick of boys to dance with was always based on the words thay chose to ask me, which were never words but, wonkey smile, glimmering eye and messy hair. 

since i couldn’t dial out, everyone knew we were working class and, to be asked to dance, i did other kids homework for them, that way, there was a righteous excuse for a phone call. 

8:8

dear moms of twitterx, on the event of this glorious lion's gate portal, your backstories are more important than movies about cars. your grace, sacrifice, discretion to meet the needs of the likes of elon and keanu, ave maría purísima! we like them, but fkmblls, we love you! 

elon and keanu create a vacuum of intense confusion, is it a matrix or is it a tunnel? the charms and complexities of which son cain or abel, will compel my finger to scroll further. the double helix of popularity to bewitch tender loneliness into bold persuasion. virtuality negates both positive and negative polarities. both are great actors in the roles they've been given.

my own mother was also a model. in the 40s. her first movie, when she was six months old, won an oscar. she played a baby boy in blossoms in the dust. she had a screen actors guild card before she could read. since i'm a daughter and not a son, everything i am is hers and not mine. since i've born no children, i have become our family home. 

models are social mayhem, we're not mary and still jews prop us up as idols. it's mortifying. then they get trannies to take our place as "ideal". 

maye and patricia are so earnestly protective of their sweet guys. i wish i could marry them both. 

saturn in aries

 skin in the game

SAPPHIRE’S SERUM - ORGANIC OILS:

— 2 TBSP Castor Oil

— 2 TBSP Black Seed Oil

— 2 TSP Argon Oil

— 1 TSP Jojoba Oil

— 1 TSP Rose Hip Oil

— 10 drops Frankincense

— Store in a brown or blue glass bottle, use on face, arms, hands & legs for optimal summer glow.

i don’t want to be back in the IT fam. i do not crave the company of they, endless diligence over self and worth, identity and passing, all out in the open, under big God sky. fleeting narcissism and spent fornication. i don’t want to be around them anymore, not even the few. i’ll admire their villages and their coctail hours through computer screens. hear the laughter over things that were not funny before and still are not funny now, glad to be one scroll away, into the formats of single and talented musicians, and grand cattlemen. the surfer nobody noticed on pretty ocean waves. 

and yet i do.

souring over money angers me. it’s all i ask when i first meet you, don’t make me mad. i don’t want to hear how much anything cost, or who you don’t like, it’s vulgar. i do not care if you do not like potatos, or whatever is on the table that day. it’s a potato, you’re an ass. why can you afford four nicas to leaf blow the yard and you won’t pay me to garden, and you won’t give me back the machete? sure i get fired up about our fraternity when you can restore wifi connections and foot the bill at family lunches, you just don’t get to yell at me that nicas costing your time, makes the yard any cleaner.

when the family circles of trust break they become the surfer’s wave, the skater’s sloping surface, the yoguis pasty petroleum floor mat. 

i never claimed sorority with any group of women. i had friends, some came in groups of sisters, and we moved in groupish ways perhaps. i’d have prefered to have been married and the ones who i still consider friends were married and are grandparents now. when abortion became legal, and aids and herpes became a threat, and disgusting petroleum condoms laced with chemical dust were handed out, everyone, who was not married, started acting the fool, letting their bits and bobs fall out intentionaly, and while men got prettier and dumber, women got ugly and fat. 

homosexuals have to work so hard to be seen and real.

like jews.

all they have is community.

all they have is them selves.

it’s kitsch.

i’m so far from caring about push back or rejection. of mr smith popping up to tell me i need a job to finance my business ideas which are great by the way, and in due time will happen without me, poorly. critical mass is catfish, a folder filled with top curriculum vitae, applied by imposters at linkedin to control the entire work force of the planet. you’re a life coach now?

truly wealthy people keep grand and glorious homes.

the filthy rich buy new houses and yachts and armies of assistance and surveilance. they’re filthy because they built the jails and credit systems.

the truly rich build railroads, utilities and witness protection. they don’t have to breed like bunnies bacause their security relies on vast generational networking and task management. numbers like ours do not dwindle. 

 the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

marry up

 i went to the hospital yesterday. a few things surprised me.

san juan de dios is costa rica's premier hospital in the heart of san jose. it's old with new parts. the east corridor pavillion is open with arches, the are trees and birds in the inside patios. the floors are spanish tile, shiny. schools of learning doctors, teams of nurses and orderlies, in the old wing of the hospital, seem to outnumber the patients. 

our patient is roughly 63, midwestern american, who not unlike most other gringos got lost in a place that seems liked paradise, a shangrila of happiness and horse farms far, far away from all the churches only to get smacked down by and reborn in jesus.

she needs a new hip. she's not diabetic. all she wants is candy, to taste a little joy despite and reward for enduring pain, in the dark, alone, in the middle of nowhere for months. six rides up and down twisted dirt mountain roads, in 4x4 ambulances ended up disarticulating the entire pelvis of what would be a very strong, very healthy woman. 

i guess it was all the tragedy of her life partner leaving her there. and also covid. fucking lesbians. it's never real. someone always has to be the man. fornication isn't selective preference we have any right to, some lifestyles are not sustainable as they bear no fruit, and orgasm is attainable through other means than intercourse. american women got pummeled by pornography so hard they forgot they were victims of it. 

not to say we aren't friends. but women who are friends without men, can only ever be just friends. it's dishonest to say there is a human right to become an indentured to denial. dick is very important. 

this east wing where she lies and clutches to feelings of fear, knowing she's just lived through hell, is not kosher, rather it's clean, bright, fluid. as if this hospital has never performed the rite of circumcision. her bed is next to the window. if she unclenches her eyes she has a view of tropical heaven and ever changing sky.

i leave knowing she's in the very best of hands, that she's going to make it, however long it takes. she says she's german mexican but i look around at the other five ladies in the ward, all injun, every one. they aren't in hospice, they came to saint john of god, to get well, not to die. 

epstein

 all the names.

on the list, of every man and woman who participated in sexual ritual and sacrifice with minors for the last hundred years.

i want to know the business holdings of every last capitalist that has enabled and been enriched by human bondage, trafficking and slavery over the last twenty. 

same way israel flattened gaza, i want to see celebrity that enabled and crafted the story of genocide in ruins. they are already captives of identity, imprisoned in their own minds, glimmerings on black monolith shaped phones, huddling zombies in broad daylight. 

there is no torture worse to famous pedos than the ordinary. the plain. the common. the good. don't put anyone in prison, inform the public. tell us their names so their neighbors, students, clients, understudies, mercenaries, butchers, book club, gardeners and coaches can treat them accordingly, with the compassion they did not show the children. 

the hazing is over, may no earth born human ever endure humiliation, nor initiate into any group that would haze another human being. 

i want the names of the genital mutilators that used foreskin tissue to experiment on cloning and other abominations. i want every abortionist from planned parenthood behind bars. i want a guaranteed permanent ceasefire in the middle east. i want every last jew deported back to their country of origin and i want the name benjamin netanyahu to be the big arrest. 

it's all stupid, especially grok

the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

tesla roadster. not a classic car. too heavy and gimmicky to be desired. too cartoonish. why does elon only use son x to garner attention towards HIS paternalism? the garish audacity of white south african entitlement baffles. 

"made on earth by humans", is printed on the vehicle instead of china or usa. it could say america made, after all, we're still the new world, established through the church of christianity, by families of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins all. we're still the first nation to declare independence from the British crown. meanwhile the boers have inbred so severely that some of them truly believe all of africa should be theirs and the blacks can remain, as slaves. they truly believe in the prodigal son, that he will master a race of robots.

in turn, i was born the year before elon, in honduras. i have 3k+ "friends" on the app that everyone makes fun of, but it's the app that houses the app preferences of more consistent subscribers, no, information miners, than all the other apps combined. so essentially twitter is just as small an echo chamber as facebook. 

as a peripheral citizen of nowhere, unlike musk, i don't measure my existence in likes or money. commodification of boundless emotion that as hard as he groks, the machines he wants us to refer to as "intelligent" can never feel. the socials have become the ultimate play ground, in virtual land anyone with enough followers can create content that mimics true success.

meanwhile, i'm outback, on the hill, shoveling and shaping terraces for future gardening, feeling the golden morning sunlight streaming through the trees, the sharp gravel and soft dust under my feet, the occasional poke of a reluctant cane shooting through. i'm outside, there, in the lightness of my body shaving chunks of anthill and chopping remnants of tall shoots and vines. the force of these arms, legs and back, the balance in push and pull, delicate strikes of a blade to the earth making vertical surface flat. there is no robot, ever, in the entire universe that can summon a demon. not as long as i'm breathing. 

social media made us "friends". real friendships didn't survive 9112001. when the phones came into production, the gadget garnered the avatars of the people who had loved before, a simulation of a good time, of a sidewalk, of a small town, of a bonfire. 

baby x is forming extreme attachment behaviors, children aren't designed to adorn their parent in public. every demon that has ever attacked elon attaches to his progeny. minime. made on earth, the car says, while it circles overhead. starlinking. 

my dad used to drag me to bars so he could play gigs. cause he couldn't afford a sitter. to be fair, they were day open mike events, hardly the drag venues that concurred after sundown, yet while he sang his medley of folk covers, i could sense the preceding night's disco themed afterparty, the dolls new york. i too was blond and pale, but unlike x, i had God's top angels standing between my innocence and the city's depravity. soho darts was dingy and smelly, and sad.  

elon's kid  seems like prince william's eldest kid, well aware that father will be king. x however, is not the eldest nor the baby among the musk offspring. claire boucher, mother, canadian, musician known as grimes is a kate, fake and overproduced, complicated. but to be fair, we’re all quirky online.