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Central Nervous

I’m learning to coordinate the various offices. The Office of the Remedial Dream wants the banishment of the Office of Frozen Swan. The Office of the Interior Landscape can’t comb its cowlicks down. The Office of the Piece-meal Liturgy and the Office of the Bonfire Ganglia are throwing water balloons. The Office of the Gargantuan Eye is loading batteries into a sock. I fear for the Office of the Fuck You Lunch. One office eclipses the next. Message from the Office of the Disembodied Hand, The Cornish hens are too few. We are unable to feed the Office of the Silicone Mistress and the Office of the Haywire Shopper at the same time. My circuits are getting raw. There is no such thing as peace or quiet. There is only the otherworldly pause I’m allowed when connected to the Office of the Dancing Ghost. Alone in her meadow, three feet of the ground, pirouetting to a music only she can hear. She is my salvation. My saving grace. My very own Office of the Never-Ending Blink.


I have spent my life perfecting a machine that forgets everything. When the villagers come to my door, I will have nothing to confess. But what about your machine, they’ll ask. What machine, I’ll say, I know of no such thing. Then, the villagers will look so sad. They’ll lower their baseball bats and their flashlights. Some will weep. What were we thinking, they’ll ask themselves, How did we come to this point in our lives? Then I’ll give them each a tamale and slowly close the door. When they’ve gone back to their families, their rickety bicycles, their apartments laced with flickering Xmas lights, I’ll unwrap my machine. A little something I call a peach-pit.