It can't be long. Books're
on heavy duty. Wang
Bomin's losing his bound
mind. Herbert Read’s
shaking pages.
Ping's, over there,
furiously taking notes.
The man's a copious
copycat: Duchamp's
tossing in his grave
hyper as the nude
descending a staircase
come to life. Because
this's been done some
poor run-of-the-mill inky
owl's got jammed in
Fountain (1917)—fancy
name for an upside down
urinal turned art. It's a good
point. What's the gravity for
the occasion? I'm trying
to figure out where
my stomach's gone
since my roommate's put
a gun to my head. Wouldn't've
guessed he'd be the criss-
cross and I'd be duped.
He must've gotten
it from that time machine
we both used to get back
here. Aside: if we're being
imaginative for a moment
(not too much longer on
the clock) we might say this
machine is also shaped like
a washing machine. Why
we put the gun in with us in
the first place is anybody's
guess. Why's he here?
I couldn't go alone.
How’d it end
like this? Not like
this. Not like this.
We weren’t yet spit
out yet. Cycle complete.