triangulated by satellites, lain into naked transparency by the interests set about constructing us (silenced variables, infotainment, the understandings of endings…) among generations, ours is most holy.

subduction came prenatal. professionals shot us out in waves, pinning outlines rigid as a crucifix might be without piercing. what more? absences of reflection, negatives in a field of returning particles. not ‘them’ (sticking a silhouette might to fix the heart); but what is left, in survival: so holy:

there are always satellites. they attest to our gravity, like the spheres of efficiency—profiling identity in the shadows from projecting others. the more we fight the flow the more our efforts are thus eroded. the more they rebel baroquely, the hornier the ineffectual seed. as an orb perceived by three parabolas will be given points, we are left accounting for every hollow that the current extends.

stupid power. it starts with making our parents vulnerable. they would cry trying to find us, we who are always getting lost in the ways of life like they’ve forgotten. among those i know are twenty marys and at least forty-five jesuses, who’s to say, i don’t really count (i’ve only had sex with a couple of them) let alone say which legends will be

but today i can say peter loads the truck and paul is at the bar. my knowledge is only habit. i know them because they change. not a single one deserving of the most beautiful lie. as individuals, we are utter strangers to this society, pushing forward to the order of knowing us all; some point, pre-conceived, when there would be nothing more than that

so in the meantime our generation will art its sistine chapel-railroad cars before capping off pressurized paint, slay its pixilated demons accepting synthetic closure to the ‘phases’ of fantasy, synthesize thesis projects that reveal what selves were the very white icons of publishing as it all keeps fractalling ways… evermore-elaborately symbolic, the faith-based maintenance of as much as you feel responsible to see, we create our most famous work, the rejection of what was holy,

each and every one of us. when a new tide of twisted fleshy mouths comes floating out around our worries and our loves and we will bow while exchanging eyebrows, try to remember what gifts we’ve managed to keep whole between us, share a final truth: finally vulnerable, again, we will return; we: holy as the holiest yet.

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