Investment Plan
She has money they said, she used it to avoid reverting to her own self. It was cash plastered together and hardened, growing mold and it’s own bacterial evolution. It was like watching the fungal growth on endless casualties or those developments in ammunition that force fecundity out of spent shells. It’s incredible how far you can drive here without sun bleached and moss grown skeletons revealing themselves above ground. ash to ash, ash as evolution, ash as memory, ash as new life. It became a gangrenous sum. A ubiquitous vulgarity was her malaise now, her circles diluted themselves on the bleu cheese like formations of blight around her credit.
Two screens pointed at each other, prospectors of stalagmitic matrices. A mining operation has become a warehouse of automatons solving puzzles of selfsame creation. Green numbers taking processing power from the bottom of the sea to reach out and touch her wallet. Tentacular fiber optic trail of capital, vaporous innovation, haunting paperless trails; following vectors of unprinted returns to their owners, apparently they still enforce a mandate of housework on their children, while armed guards stand at the gates.
Regenerative degradation of platform and high yield engagement stratifying parasociality. Following the self-flagellators while the shafts elongate and the excavated decimals continue to rise and fall. Her financial constructions ossified themselves into strings of source and invisibility. Calcifying obligation. The buried paper now officially, legally, dead sprung forth its maggot hierarchy, its carrion sprawl.
She could then only replicate forms of what she once was, act through ghosts of herself, or; do a sort of puppetry with her former selves emptying old accounts, overdrawing her neurons on transactional clones of forgone intimacy. The space that used to be her life was an exercise in prosperous nihility, absent singularity. Abscessed reality.
Ash piling up, ash raining, ash with a profile, ash infrastructure, ash watching a screen, ash arguing with itself, ash being eaten, ash feeling depressed, ash reading, and an ash forest.
Easter’s Trip
Faltering flash drives hoarding records and the information mapping your imagination, layering it over it’s own folded grey matter gore splatter. The last tabs have been dipped twice on my tongue as the boulder seals our dormitory in the blackness of Holy Saturday’s night. Ecclesial mandates of rehearsal at 7:30 on the resurrection’s morn, the entire musculature of your face is conjunctively engaged in blowing the horn of praise.
Document decline in waves and tracers. Sacramental wine flow congeals in glaciers. The glaziers made a killing during the sieges and bombardments. It looked like an accident, his mouth was coated with salvia he got from his friend’s abuela. He now was an enigma of manifold creation, a chimeric lazarus. He appeared in digital modifications to corporeal problems, disciples augmented themselves behind the eyes or in their joints with his word. Archival antipathy was the undoing of the bound word order, rising was the socius cyber, flattening coded plateaus for itself to grow.
Neon drinking prophets persecute him through the cranial estuary of aural bones. The door mice in Corinth built cities from these tiny bones of the parents and grandparents, they had knitted blankets for Diogenes. The guests cancelled and life was a filthy rotten mess, the wine too watery and insufficient. The bells ring in echoes of ears from past iterations.
Mercury’s Webcam
Marsh of circuitry
rotting with the
caligae forgotten
in the depths of
the adriatic.
Olive oil libations
over the marble
harddrive of
relic. The world
becomes chthonic,
circles increasing
by powers of nine.
Motherboard elysium
fans ford the rubicon cable
and he thinks of
Persephone.
Prime directives
of articulated
lapses. Lapsis folia.
Intake update version
a coded melancholia.
Blackout vision goggles
I was listening to gun smoke through the phone just after a water damaged book came through the mail. Statistic trend in the neuro-chipped of botched attempts, drill sales increase five fold among cosmopolitan patrons. They wanted to stop the trees from killing wires in their last moments, consensus is to wire the trees, draw up an arbor link in the bark, get it to work with the mycelium in the root systems, and have it fruit itself. Imposition of an embrace of electronics in soil, less each minute but more of the ocean. Then I got the footage of myself on the phone and I was due to answer for my actions in those minutes under review of the commission for productivity and positivity, I regret my router.
Libalexandria.jpeg
Ways out, out of pine trees jutting from the bay,
truncated and after the return
of cartographers from their creation.
Telecommute to inner life
through a buffer of
anonymous violence
and speculative philosophy.
Is left out of algorithmic bot structure.
Bibliographic conspiracy
of the constructed
statement. Is included
in too perfect a psychological operation.
For shelves and
placards in fine dust coatings,
pinpointed on saltbreeze
wisps.
Palimpsest memory
papyrus. A photograph
of orange-violet catastrophe
august sky bleeding
its sweet humors
into an ocular
kantharos.
Mare Nostrum is bedsheets and pillows
an ocean surface topography,
(with its own plastic islands)
of leaving each other.
Untitled Landscape
He was pointing at deer and calling them horses and there were lichtenberg figures forming under the arcs of eyelashes. A falling geography. Plains of atrophied stalks and collapses of cereal unfurling our burial mounds, fireblackened trees stand as a masked chorus above a hubristic polis. Amphitheatrical tapestries of the forming nebulae, the gaseous colors of ionization and elemental collision with a backdrop lacuna of illuminated fabrics. I would like to cover all the stars with my blanket he had heard himself say to his mother, as a child, he was older and they were covered with plastic now. He had always wanted to say “where’s it” but no one understood; where is it, where’s it at, these were dead versions of himself they were a costume and he refused to wear it. Fevered parables were reproducing themselves. The poet wants to reduce themself. It was on something, it was a touch screen sepulchre of short sentences to fall asleep on. A ceaseless oceanic expansion swallowing defense contractors. Ulcerating rock slides concentrate near artistically documented, detail-oriented funeral services.
John Leonard is a 25-year-old artist from outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He has a BA in music from Susquehanna University and he currently works in home health care. He experiments in music, visual art, and writing. He is influenced by his two cats, philosophy, entropy, 20th century/contemporary literature, and among other things rust and discoloration. His work has previously appeared in The Collidescope. His Instagram is: @johnleondariv