A Secant Query

Between Plant and Types

Wherein I whirl a stream of stars...

Between Plant and Types

Alone With Vehicle

Cars shells people skitter hermit crab-like in. And tucker out, pull up somewhere. Sleep: 🌌🚘

On my bike, head over forks between handlebars, spine along tank, events play. Death sustains good levels of viable. And no bite. On my death, I check in. How she doing; I wonder, is she paid enough. More questions risk bringing my death to like me. My death, your worship risks time to making a fossil of themself so knowing fails to want me.

I Say Things

"Does my death have a crush on me" - alone, on my bike in state far from the state I am in greeting yesterday's dawn, one quote or other, surviving death's forgetting, makes it through.

As dew on bike, my legs fold one over the other. Leathers on me cup like hammock: offer friction between myself and seat. I'm in the position I might lay might the position I am in hours prior fuck me ridden. Collective dying's small death swipes pay types, chat up cashier (my mom, her mom, me - you, probably), who really just want's death gone, And death's card declines.

Death apologizes - "of course, let me..."

And chats while searching pockets for... whichever payment type might be one the present moment recognizes.

Things Like This

Body lousy with pores, a tidepool. Escape is trivial.

Still, I like being specific about my escape. Imposition my canvas, I carve; meat a pore, mind another, arriving: store camera on me here. What lens that camera reflects, a droplet. Pass through droplet into sensor - 100+ elements of reality's 118. Arranging elements so I might shift directions camera faces. I spot the line.

Behind my death, this line of people sit to check out.

It doesn't sink in.

I keep looking. Me, cashier, am stuck here; have an excuse. These others, in line, could take picture, items in cart ordered, come back when payment is processed. Furious for all a moment, I breech, sea mammal.

Crash, surface understanding flings parasites off my person in all directions. For something so wrong as seeing this, I've never felt right. Perverted, I say: they can leave! They impose this on themself. Me? I die if I quit this job [spoilers: I leave that job for disaster work and never find my way back]; I can't just quit. How will I make rent, buy food? These people in line behind my literal death literally fishing a literal pocket dimension for any one of the myriad payment types that can handle this situation. Coming up:

Declined.

I realize I am just the plants I ate this morning; note the plant beside me. With the bluetooth-enabled soil a patron returns ungift-ly, saying they really don't like AI. I pair potting soil with my phone, download the app, calibrate the app to the soil. Click agree.

A gravitational wave of connection fails to emit.

Jump stolen by nearest quasar, plant only is me now, bound by EULA or so[ ]l, or whaever sky. Feeding the plant transcription of this post, the app talks in my voice as not startle my death with voice change and provoke audit to validate my person.

Is everything going alright?

"Yes, fine," death says brightly, still fishing. I'm a ghost. I did not say anything. My death recognizes me as this plant. I have no business here. Feeling slighty perverted, I slip away.

Reality Shopping

In an interview about Coherence (2013) (the movie that inspired Black (2024)), the director describes actions main character takes in a montage resolving the climax as: "reality shopping".

From that sequence, I remember the soft camera rotation, the stars under the spell of the comet desyncing collective conscious. I note constellations. None of them legal names, my own contellations. From where I noticed that cluster for the story I tell myself while witnessing that constellations migration across my thoughts.

I lie here like this, looking up, co-creating with my death; we steam mussels (which are vegan). We notice worlds, under illegal lights. Phosphorescene isn't fighting anyone's reality. We dig through our pockets, same as you, just not for rent. We cook this food, tuck into this sleep spot and wake up next morning from whatever dream, pack up, and ride away.

Just me here, this, your death.

Your Death's Unmet Needs