democratic domes and anarchical gyres
Philip Gordon
the mechanism of every second pulling you in uncountable directions. the progress of spinning in place, the trek through the same footprints you’ve worn into memory—and then you open your eyes
the mechanism of every second pulling you in uncountable directions. the progress of spinning in place, the trek through the same footprints you’ve worn into memory—and then you open your eyes
There is no Flash Gordon, only this space
ship swiveling back and forth in an arena
of stars that are not stars but pixels flickering,
an illusion of movement.
Tecmo / Barry was pretty good, but he couldn’t dance like the real / Barry, just like how I could run fly patterns for my dad / in our front yard but in a pick-up game even the easiest / passes bounced off my hands.
>look
you can barely see
through the dark
the boxes of baseball cards
a pink panther action figure
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