DISPORTING LIFE

Getting in the game.

First I yank the gridiron virtually, mega-magic carpet rippling small tsunamis for the gamer inspired by the game.

The crystal football soars 100 yards exactly, the ultimate Hail Mary pass, emitting a harmonizing hum and rainbow glowing. The long-muscled receiver’s resilient fingers envelop the long-range rocket as a tangible cloud enshrines the lightning, slo-mo diving in the end zone promised land.

Zeus, the QB+ responsible, thrusts his V-clenched fist on high. The crowd cheer decibels rise to ear-bleed level.

Thunder smiles as sudden death expires with the touchdown.

He thanks the quantum winds of change, his eye-of-the-storm fidelity, his stalwart offensive line, his genetic freak of a throwing arm, and of course his superhumanly gifted wide receiver, Torch Ectoplasm.

Skulls of brain-damaged suicides line the end zone, reminder of fallen concussion victims of the smashmouth gridiron.

Wet leaping cheerleaders swoon into a glistening heap, still shuddering from internalized touchdowns scored, carrying swooning and literal torches for the aptly named hero with the quick slow soft strong hands.

Torch, swamped with delirious mega-large teammates, greets the charging Zeus exuberantly – chest thump ballet yes this is your life!

As is the custom, the victorious interior linemen will be offered the delicacy of the brains of the children of the vanquished Other – but will, of course, decline, so as to protect their own offspring from being exotic caviar when the roles are inevitably reversed.

For now, the Golemopolis Volts beat the OtherPlace Germs, 28-21 in OT, in the SuperNatural Bowl. Or was it 27-21? I think it’s "Fuck the extra point" in sudden death.

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Prof. Body’s body’s covered with Post-its of postmodernist poststructuralist postcolonialist postindustrial postcorporate Post Toastie posthuman postings.

A slo-mo whirlwind keeps her spinning like a paper top ‘cross the linguistic landscape. When the inner wind slows to a stop, the crumpled post-post-post-post-post Post-it postings are all that remain as she vanishes to Brazil.

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Eve Body V hungers for the apple of her eye on the mean streets of the capital. The physical-soulsexual-spiritual starveling is all of a piece. The gnawing glow in her eyes enthralls and repels Adam Apple simultaneously. He wonders what mutation waits in the wake of their imminent midnight carnal meltdown. Here comes your 19^th carnal meltdown. Word made flesh is a thousand suns. Then groceries feed the furnace of her stark redemption.

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The gnarly pedagogues don’t care about developmental post- as much as sub-, infra-, inter-, pre-, trans-, anti-. Human. Collapsibility seems the benchmark. Alien biology. Insects or Zen masters. They really only refer to the latter when they exhaust lattices of mantises. Basically, the post- differentials emerge from a sub-.

Humanities do not emerge from an approximation of the fully human. Only the thin gruel of ratiocination lacing archaic mythos. That glancing knee-jerk vague aside to the Zen master needs to be the correctional axis of a more thorough intelligence – intelligence, not intellectuality.

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I don’t think anyone is around that knows I’ve been slipstreaming time-space continua since medieval times – five hundred years long enough to notice medievality has never left us. The gooey mythic glue of religion. The crude redundancy of historicity. The zealous fragmentary irrelevance of it all. O yes certainly various rituals serve the function of confession of one’s powerlessness before the Kosmic wheel – and unfortunately even before the grimly violent machinations of state, extremist cults, and lone wolf fuckheads. But it’s a big loser club at the end of the day. BFD.

All my love-desires the heft and glorious radiance of pond scum.

Still a very young cherry pussy is being teleported to my open door.

For her orgasmic moans still fuel the triumph of dreams.

I’m old-school. Gender-bending doesn’t interest me that much, tho’ to each his/her/its own. Any theatrical charge associated with soulsexuality is not a head trip to me, or even primarily neuro-kink – it’s transcendental thunder. Might be romantic love, might be sublime indifference. Yeah, transcendental is another word "out of fashion," academically. I surmise it is considered a hyperrationalized illusion. Yet, as noted, the same postmodern academic will make the catch-all aside to the Zen master. That clearing IS transcendence – full instantaneity of awareness IS transcendence. Shhhh, don’t tell anybody. I guess it’s the ridiculous incestuousness of knowledge clubs that keeps everybody so cleverly stupid.

H Cherry BombShell’s virginity is the poise on the curling wave of the world soul’s evolutionary cumquake.

I dust home plate in the field of dreams. Fountains of desire erupt from cross-patch assemblages, aggregates of habitual being in periodic transformation.

When everybody kept dying off over the centuries, the poignantly exquisite women in particular, I tended to alternate between onanism and asceticism, some judiciously obscure no-man’s-land for the almost immortal loner.

Yet the cherry blossom blooms anew now. Parallel worldling, shifting assemblage point, reality grid.

Out of that twilight tunnel a fresh mandarin orange sky. Low-slung stark trees on the horizon. A mirage glimmer of a secret sea. And the shimmering presentiment of Cherry baby.

H Cherry is 21 and starring in her first life love feature film – quasi-documentary of the budding libidinal hyperreal.

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He signals interest with smolder-gaze smile, and short-hand wave. She hurls a bucket of meat from across the swank bistro room, instantly winning his carnivorous heart. It’s filet of tender thighs, still quivering, his favorite.

The other dining patrons are unperturbed, as the anti-grav beam in the floor has the flesh pail floating from cloud nine.

She doesn’t stay to see the meat meet Snake-Eyes. She’s on her way to learn smoke signals from an old taciturn Indigenii.

He sets the meat bucket down on the table, taking a call on his iCan, retro-cell on a string.

She had come to this town to be nobody, but instead became a holo-star, her innate mega-wattage burning through her bushel-basket o’ anonymity, spirit beyond the pale.

"Yes yes, " he exclaims over his iCan, "It’s for the No-Age market. Yes, that’s right. It’s called The Way of the Warful Peaceior. A quimnast who breaks his dick attempting a difficult spin maneuver during a spirited bout of intercourse is told by doctors he’ll never fuck again. Moping around this vegetable oil refueling station, with its shamanic attendant, Cockrates (who appears in Pan, the quimnast’s dreams silent and sudden; has a hidden vertical leap of 15’ in a nanosecond, during which he transmogrifies into a cockatrice, legendary serpent with deadly glance hatched by a reptile from a cock’s egg on a dunghill; and can catch greased dildos hurled fast his way with eyes-averted aplomb), Pan finds himself engaged in a rehabilitative training regimen under Cockrates’ baleful eye. Pan’s ‘training partners’ avail themselves of copious amounts of Cockrates’ recycled vegetable oil, as Pan’s conspicuous cock splint makes coitus more like a visit to the gynecologist than his former quimnastic swoon-inducing virtuoso thrills."

The voice on the other end of the iCan emits sounds of involuntary creaming.

"Yes yes, isn’t it wonderful? Oh, and get this, I’m reading from my notes: ‘Quimnastics becomes mnemnastics when the warful peaceior becomes Source in the quivering orgasmic vortex,’ proclaims Cockrates, station to station, stations of the X, regenerator of lost acausality. ‘The peaceful warrior attempts to align his egoic psycho-physical dynamics with the Tao. The warful peaceior is the mad edge of Tao’s creative potential."

The voice on the other end makes gurgling noises of Homer Simpson-esque drooling.

"Right, it’s great!," the man continues. "Then Cockrates evokes the famous crazy wisdom myth about Lord Shiva, destroyer-liberator in the Hindu trinity coming into a village and hacking everyone to pieces with his sword of awareness before sitting on their corpses in profound meditation. Cockrates asks: ‘Is Shiva being a peaceful warrior or the ultimate warful peaceior?’"

Silence on the other end of the iCan’s string. Then, "Um, what lesson is gained from such an image of monstrous violence?"

"There is no such thing as a separate entity in the wild field of Consciousness Itself."

"Hmmm. . ."

"We are all already dead."

"Wow."

© 2007 Peace Wilson