Wednesday, April 13, 2016

TYPE B

This
is it.

Left alone—you cannot help
but transform.
Soon,

you'll be a
secret

superhero again.

You'll
invert.

And everything
else in the world
will still

be full-color, but you—you'll finally
feel black

and white
again. Your chest

cavity will cave-
in a little,

and cool,

and its
throbbing will slow,

even
as your brain
swells,

and begins twitching
and switching
between gears—pretty rapidly

clicking and pinging and shuffling

between
its equally prized
and reviled collection

of rumpled paper-
thin thoughts,
running fact-

checks,
taking measurements
for cross-
comparison, examining

photographs
and drawing meticulous
 little diagrams on
each of them

featuring all the best-
and worse-
case scenarios;
like paper-mache (no,

Papier-mâché), it'll then start
cutting and gluing
together huge
compilation lists,
and then—
carefully destroying
the now trivial
impetus for having creating them;

After all that—it'll usually
try
it's hand

at solving all the classic koans (no
problem, given

enough time, it
reasons)—before
giving up

on that,
and settling
for writing

brand new ones instead,
like—

Quick!—what is it
you
would
think about?

if—
no

body
was pressuring you to answer that question?

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