Room in the Past

1

Medicine cabinets with corroding harpoons hang around the museum. Loud voices of telephone claim the museum of Harpoons is temporarily closed for gestational periods of Aug 3rd-Aug 9th. All centers haunt the airwaves. Under the museum the dial tone hangs, one from a late1930’s telephone booth lined up on the torn cobble stone of an old subway entry.

The harpoons are viewed inside of their medicine cabinets from robotic telephone booth in a superimposed double image. The claim center shouts off quotes and speeches through the dark caverns below the mountain range. Echoes of the overlapping voices seek and destroy. Along shore are the lines leading up to the harpoon museum's door. Ghostly, softened places, a whistle of crossing holograms sneak in/out of the air, a shadow tracer of a tuxedo cat, delicate with her paws. Before the door in the calm wind, she stirs before the wooden door, spins all of the yarn from the holograms unto the ocean and into the sea of those pesky cross eyed reflections in the water. Spies from the entry to the Harpoon museum all the cold cabinets in the sound of seagulls, she unravels its animation from view and lays down in it all.

2

There in the tangled yarn of the tuxedo cat hallucination lies the next reference, sphere of old ocean. The line leads up to the museum, a long slope of rectangular mirrors leave six languages spinning along a trail to a river, which is the oak door. Wooden hand puppets take a walk up to the center of the lines, below is a very sheer edge of rocky cliff and sea, darkened by the rain clouds of the east, overshadowing their shivering wooden puppetry parts, dangling splintered wood, the museum like a nursery stillness at the end of the dark void.

3

A place of perfume begins its wooden unfolding from the axis of the rocky cliffs, each sheet of fiber reveals its softened, hairy texture like the flower the museum can and always will become.

The wooden house unfolds its petals unto the puppetry who line up in the mirrors on the edge of the cliffs. The museum only blooms once, as the sky is at its final grain of dark black; a rose unfolds in the crags of the steep cliffs.

4

Room in the past coming forward, into the light from within the seedpod of the flower of the Harpoon Museum. Birth canal, howling pain from the storms, a brewin’ Seed pod shaped in rusty harpoon, ropes, dirty old ocean spewing out tangled mess of kelp. We are born from within this place, we emerge from inside of a room in the past.

Revealed emergency, the room in the past comes forward and lands next to the camera crew (you and I) in the sand.

5

The Nursery of Stillness surrounds our puppetry and its soft gleaming Fabrics cut out from the yarn barn around back. The camera crew [ you and I] wiggle our way underground from the steps of the Yarn Barn to the underground chambers of the rose petals falling long ago. To the yo-yo shop window back in 1947, we Peak, Gathering views, real reflections of ourselves and our faces. You and I dressed in particleboard space Man suits, spray painted cardboard boxes and cut out scraps from The Yarn Barn. * 4 * reversing, wow, look at those yo-yos, man!

6

Sinking into the past is the Museum of Harpoons, the Galaxy of an old mentality, through the soft soil emerges, grown on the vine is the house from the past, arrival. Contact. Shape-shifting houses these Shores promote. The white mares wander the shore searching for food, the only Signs of Life against the Dark Mist. The house grows arms and legs. Televisions wobble up into line. Little black and white boxes of static and light leave trails where the plugs are dragging orange and green extension cords through the sand. The channels are changing rapidly on the spinning wheels. The old way before the shape-shifting landscape and the mutating Creations, structural ideas of man taking on their own life.

Room

Along the east cliff overlooking the warbled, mutated painting, done up in soft hues of algae and blue is a small room. There inside the room are a dust covered bed, and a chair. The television and refrigerator are on and one is full of oranges and the other is full of static and sound waves and long timelines, pre-written by the men and women of the future, seeping over into the past.

I sit and share the oranges with my rabbits, methodically peeling them half crested moons, to opening spirals.

On the wall above is the map of a time that no one has seen, it is in the middle of being erased. The Center has been gone forever.

12 scenarios at once: the television speaks to the chair, the chair discusses the outbreak of moss from the television to the rabbits, and the rabbits nibble on orange peels, attempting to describe what is going on in the news to me, the news to me is static and drops off into void land, the void land is where I hang out in my head.

I don't like to watch the news and I don't understand it at all, all the fast yapping. I see twelve separate possibilities in each piece of information exposed like bone in fat. One room of gnats, nests and Moss, The nest under the cave, into the mountain we go... I've been experimenting with moss solution... One of the 12 is: I get back to my bunker and open a basement hatch, in one of the 12 I am lounging in sleeping quarters, all the room of moths and gnats combined and calmly reorganized as information. In one of the weaving woven 12, riding a bicycle on the TV, a man on bike through the desert, I can view him and he me, wearing a gas mask, for breath and crushing a flower like a little speaker, the music plays Sinatra.

Luminous, the TV screen grows. 12 slows to 11 to 1. Blank. No? TV of the room, luminous green light, the rabbits are resting, the TV appears to be on its way out. The rabbits awoken, then soft, snuggle and. I must watch as my hands open a package of good food, to eat.

Twilight is coming.

The 12 clipping, a manifest of all data, reprogrammed into colonies. A scenario when one aspect of the 12 had already been clipping, supposedly clipping, unraveling the subtextual layers beneath. I can peek through here at the scenario from an almost dreamlike curiosity of the scenario, and I can peek through the layers of the seeping through of the passive computer data all numbers rationalizing for me this disease of some reality flaw or disease like a visual. There is no need for this program to lie, they've programmed it this way and that, but there were suddenly never any officers of the stealth, [we wind backwards] the beginning with the streets already a congregation point on one of the 12 realities [this is fact.] I can witness the erosions of their experiment and in my half awake state, conceive of the possibility that the TV has been narrated by the voice of the room, the chair, myself. The sphere of cognition, it feels and looks more like thoughts coming in from outside of the Mind within like a script being spoken from the TV to the hands.

7.1

Hundreds of years later they will have found a single house up on the Hills, the music from within pushes and pulls from inside. There will be the record player and the old spray painted car in the living room acting as a bed, a kitchen... A Divine look too, it's clown like sneer. Driving the rabbits across the desert, flooring it in my gas mask. We kick up dust and search.

8.1

All the news draws in from outside, a blanket woven of many histories, Patchworks the night. This draws into. There's a moment I rather like to remember in the desert that the rabbits nibble about to me regarding the magician who helped me understand the fog outside the town that is trapped at an egg experiment inside. Something around the knowledge from a blue light that had or is still entering mine from The Magician's hands thoroughly shaking.

9.1

A bag of eggs suddenly appears outside the rows of these houses, a floating bag of eggs rising from the sea, witnessed hanging there before the edges of the cliffs I have the unsettling moment where I notice they are projected from cell phone towers, like puppets on strings the image comes into view for the eyes. Something in me hangs over the water, leaning out and snags the bag of headaches from in the air, the vision and balancing from there in the air back into my body, realigns to the shell within, projecting me forth, and hands the vision some of us nearby, who nervously take the vision back down into the bunker.

Smash

An orange is subject to the weight and pressure of a robotic hand, the Orange is only referencing the spherical continent before it is hit, crushing it into fresh-squeezed juice. With eraser and eaten. An old time rotary phone colored yellow with gold details is placed in the epicenter, the middle of the testing room where a robotic arm raises High the handle of a sledgehammer, and lets it free fall.

Under the 12 rows of teeth in reality, this image is sent through the Twisted pathways. Pan left and witness the television smashing machines on a walk alone in the day in the moving room of Nets and Moss, contagious. As bits of computer chips, copper and glass shatter; the Moss moves the Sun of the clock down the tunnels of the body on a bicycle fly up in the sizzle of the internal housing. Luminous, a good digesting of food through the Twilight of nerves until clipping.

In area 7 construction has begun during an eviction. The low rumbling of the bulldozer rolling in place, and the beep beep beep backing up near the first house, where the swinging wrecking ball smashes into the wall. Of the testing house. The idiot perched inside hovers, Dreadful looking, his eyes squint in the sudden light adjusting intravenous tubes hung all over his body. He peeks from the living room. Did he not receive the evictions letter? Are you the maintenance people, are you bringing my new television, I've cleaned all the kids droppings… Everything is in the neatest of order.

This testing facility is being shut down.

You should have received a notice, did you not receive our notice last week that we would be here? Well, I thought I wasn't allowed to leave because of the government lockdown? The stealth officers, please don't make me leave what about my children.

We must follow orders, sir. You are going to have to vacate the premises before we have you arrested.

But...

We are just doing our jobs, sir, please leave immediately.

But… I don't have all of my medicine, my money what...

We don't know sir.

Montage

For weeks I am forced to wander and fear along the desert, the riot of the body moving the substance like eggs in a bag through this Wasteland, searching for gaps in the makeup of the hillside. I push my rabbit children in a baby carriage with all of my other belongings sticking out this way and that. My wheelchair had to stay behind. I push up along through the oppressive heat of the desert afraid of the stealth officers, houses are torn down on all sides over the town, the construction Crews have gone 24 hours a day since the eviction, the government is destroying all of it. I try to keep the line along the Far Hills, finally finding a cave where I can hide out for now. The withdrawals for the money IVs have been extreme.

Smashed Apple beneath steel toed boots, a room where the machines have been built. The smashed TVs lay everywhere.

Radio's, too... Smashed in walls of a house by the wrecking ball. The rumor of the stealth officers is a lie. Luckily. I've seen one person since the evictions, a nice old lady who was very scared for her life. She was also a victim by the government. I'm going to have to figure out how to get food now.

The riot of the body grows nervous until it finds an old house within its own body. A Man on Fire wanders through slopes of Siberia. Chamber orchestra music plays and passing, a spray painted clown car drives up dust full of rabbits wearing gas masks.

Energy connects the natural order of the Soul.

Delivery, a man can turn to a mouse and explore the vent system in this old house and this room of the body.

A day walking alone, with my children, I wanted the desert Moss Graffiti, making the solution, Gathering the miles from Bridges. I am in search of food and water. I have my mask on, I'm steady, clumping giant handfuls of the Moss into my collection bucket, carefully scraping the most of it in. The government has been releasing commercials into my dreams. In the underground bunker, I mix my solution and fill up my applicators. Tonight I will go out. Every night there is a rushing waterfall and a tan gentleman holding up different bottles of Joy, life, purpose. Upon the wall painting the solution on, I checked behind me to make sure that there are no onlookers or soldiers. Finishing the last invisible letter is applied, and I duck down, back to the bunker. A different brand of soda or soap or detergent hang in front of me. Last night it was an ad for a sandwich. I desperately need something to eat.

Release

A week back in time the wall read "Release Us" in thick, bushy Moss. The government is busy in their hazmat suits, up there scrubbing the message off.

I mix up another batch in the bunker, watching this on television.. Tonight I go out. The children have been looking very delicious lately, I desperately need something to eat. They look so delicious.

Tangles

Who are these irregular animals we have become? These half-breeds, tangles in the hair of sunlight which pours from fish gene half- people, a tangle of organisms with cells of an internal clock gear, features of the expression are like a waterfall, as the river goes to sleep. Inbred house cats form the Horizon. The cells of the human gymnast, the data of a computerized manatee?

Mathematics chains and data feeds replace dna strands. Chains of it are computer code, creeping in through the delicate trace of manipulated fingerprint.

Unsegmented from the tips of her fingers, the hair of each imprint attached there along the screen, eyes crossed (the crosses of Golgotha, upon the old Twilight comes undone at the hairline tip, her tongue elongated, juts forth in misery and shards of ecstasy.) Liberated are the free flowing codes she is stuck beneath, simple slave unit, her, a slave to those muted songs that the web does inside her, nothing she notices or cares for, since the web is invisible, all she can see are the legs, the legs are the Nets catching the light from the window of the screen. The invisible talking, the puppet strings submerged in the airline before her, coming in through the room from invisible code banks set up from a control group, nothing there is visible so there is nothing to worry oneself about. Simple boredom takes place.

She was a dust-covered throw away from the first experiment from 1769. Distantly, the overlapped hours of one of her decisions is precisely mapped, and taken away as another Alley of underground segments in thought are programmed and tunneled in, yet not revealed.

Tangles of all the test subjects overlapping a degraded lock of hair, and on the black mantle, where the marble pathway has now been installed into the current memory Loop, the small overhead lamp Shines on the wooden teeth of the comb.

The shoelaces are tied like interlocking fingers at her stomach, she is in a selfish embrace with the code. Littered in objective data. She is programmed into a hive-like mind set with other test patients in the subgroup Numero Uno. (The first test group.) All possible choices have been mapped out for her in 10 different timestamps by finger 1 through 10. She still has all of her digits and is in good health, but the tech heads had decided to retire her from the program and locked down to her home in rural side bank number 7. The place would be her dying zone so as not to leak information to the threads of History. The tech group knew not to allow overlaps in subjects on the test site to the general population of humans experiencing year 1774 what the history books would call a non-unique time and move on.

10 possibilities a second pass over the current in her withering Choice filtration system, this could be manipulated and shifted but the company knew she would not test them back. She was a good girl. The ominous Stillness of the ceiling still made her feel unsettled, and she knew something below the surface was occurring but could not figure out just what. The boredom had led to inquisitiveness, her mind kept searching the ceiling for more clues finding only the same stucco Impressions and Imperfections. This was the canceling of the other obvious movement Maps, where she had decided to gather herself up from the bed and locate a glass of water. That timeline had occurred as well, and both instances had in turn canceled the other out. The body enraptured in the sticky flow of input data consigned itself to passive inspection of the ceiling, following all of its lines and bumps and textures. The modifications were happening below the surface, these modifications happened 18 seconds every 5 minutes and claimed her body and mind as their own. In layman's terms she had become a catatonic function, the body attained its movements via operation and reaction to the surrounding elements, and no further were they allowed to reach.

Soft Nimbus of red pants flowed up from the fluffy inspection, covered in rows of input clouds to separate the view from the background, the clouds pumped in through vents, staggered memory in gelatinous curtails, hands over face over oblivion in memory.

Just let your head cruise the shores of fate, sit back, and lift out the clouds, sort them and sift through them with delicate programmed and non programmed freedom, where the wheelbarrows are seen farting along the gravel pits to southside elementary school, not broken body parts and thrown away human genome headed to the lab to be tested and used in cloning procedures, just funny little farting wheelbarrows full of household objects everyday materials gardening materials. The pusher pouring porridge from the sleeves of an elvis presley jacket, and singing soup from the mouth in the house, roses dangle from the eyebrows, from the hat shaped house, hovering above her, the sorrows blur fast black shadows across the jellyfish glass cabinets. The people had said in their newspaper not to knock down the doorways, or slide from highways, or talk in overpass with that style, laying down the new rules of nature that drools off of the edges of the books,the seeping lies from the pages of history.

Damey dresses the rabbits, program damey that is, the rabbits are headed out for school, program damey sends them through the hole in the wall the government had drilled in our house. Boston sits perched on his hands, his boy tie is situated in front of the mirror.

The robotics fingers of Damey are dressing him. He looks nice. The rabbits are sent off to the school in the fish tanks behind the science lab. The rabbits tumble through the government tubes that lead them across the Hudson river, under the bell tower, through the subway tunnels, past the hot dog stands, and below central park.

Sun Inside the Clock

The walls of the house have become stained by the orange sunlight. A printed circle of black dust is left behind where the clock is removed and dusted with a feather duster by Damey the robotics fingers.

The feature is a waterfall into the river of sleep, it's featured from the sun inside the clock, and forms the lake of sleep around the basement boiler. The sleep is a continual loop of sound frequency an old german government invented for us 20 years ago in 1760. There’s no fighting it, or them I sit in my wheelchair in the living room, and watch as the golden light pours out of the sun in the clock and the robotics arm pulls down the fluid bag from my IV drip and reattaches the pumping money replacements, and drains my daily soul input out of the bags of intravenous money, laid up in my arm, sounding a jolt of television commercials, advertisement bulletins pass in the field as I drive through the great desert of America on screen. Windows pop up with cherry women with problems solved when I buy the thing they hold up in their clean and polished hands.

My house is a dump, it's littered in rabbit shit and black mold grows in the carpet. The IV bags lay scattered in fluid puddles all over my living room. We had to sell the TV but the stencil of its shape still reminds me of its very missed presence, still hovering there like a ghost, a lighter color where it used to sit.

The government had ordered a recent mandatory lockdown two years ago. They had decided to hire armed guards to watch the streets, and I havent left the house in fear of the stealth officers who have taken to forming rape gangs and have been known to murder instead of arrest people seen outside of their houses. They are the new criminals, they run the streets. The officers.

The steady trance of the money pours in, easing my suffering mind, I stare at the face of an attractive young brunette, the edge of her lip curls after informing me to buy HIBBERS soap.

I will. I will buy anything you say. The digits of the robotic hands (damey) take out the IV needle and place the empty bag in a pile of bags on the moldy carpet. As I lean back my head, drooling, ahhh. The emptying of the soul drains down behind me, into a puddle where it gels under the old bookshelf and dissolves.

MAINTENANCE

The maintenance of the gears of this clock rely clearly on the same urge to smash the montage.

The maintenance machines are coming tomorrow for the new television, they are installing it in the living room. Hopefully near the bathroom.

I am getting all of the rabbit droppings swept up for their survival. I look around.

To the hands in the gloves which will in turn reapply the motion again to the multiplying clocks in the multiplying room. The house is covered in thousands of black pellets, The black pellets on every surface.

10

There is a man in the desert who has the ability to light himself on fire, he pulls himself (ablaze), sensing the cold from within, he puts himself out with the flick of the wrist, a sizzling of vapor and smoke, his hands he offers to the thirteen and one, saying or uttering the word SIBERIA. Our hands touch in the cold fluid, extending from inside of him, entering my frames of the many heavenly fields of chairs, sideways , straight, a tiny thread of thin blue hues of packaged light, wiggled out of its casing, coming in along all of us, my spine travels through my veins, all things were false hood, there beyond was another world. That fog the kings of this land protect was lifting, the world beyond the world was revealing itself, there yonder. Along the cliffs, SIBERIA and I and the twelve other changes, possibilities rise like balloons along the rocks, and below as the shore crashes into the ravine, we see the ruined towns, the test places of old sinking.

I’ve transformed this place, and fed into you what is needed to cross through. The thirteen one turn to ask the vanished of the false world beneath, but SIBERIA has transfigured doubt in blue flame.

9.2

The people click the body from one referencing contraption or clock to another, clothes gesturing from bone to heavens criss cross, through window to chairs amidst sideways turns, chairs through underground tunnels of nickel and platinum, heavens matrix multiplying spherical reference, rows of twelve teeth of reality, they find their own way on bicycle through the mountains.

Riot

There is an experiment run of steam, one that may or not have occured. The new set has run: the institution interested in seeing our people riot, their interest only lasted five intervals now, the duration of the new set event.,The people growing angry/ the people growing tired of anger.

8.2

Test patients like me have been arriving in the shared space that the energy company warehouse has become, now shut down. Each of us is ourselves the other twelve, making up a continuous thirteenth with our twelve others prior. Future experiences absorb into the extraction, the interface bodies in such a way to dissolve time, in a timely manner, backwards and forwards we go through destiny. The other patients and i are twelve, thirteen and simply one, when you stand out in the middle of the desert and look long enough, This overlapping everyone is followed by the program of natural [input/ output] rather lingers out on a limb, from the something that is not quite for them, we've been implementing gardening scenarios all over the construct. I’ve learned that twelve and thirteen have the power to change into the format of small mice. To explore the interior of the testing labs.

7.2

From the edge of the cliff to the walk back to the bunker, there hasn't been any signs of life, further protruding from within the evaporating memory of government buildings below. Somewhere a plant grows legs and arms, mutating over work tables, scattered with maps and telephones and coffee cups, full of pencils and microphones, evaporated fog keeps closing in from off in the distant hills. The man takes the shovel and pulls from the earth sand and stones, as the wall closes in, the vague stillness, devouring all reason.

I jump up high, through a window, past fences, the river turns sideways and pours us a drink at the table and chairs of hair - Phones for you, been ringing all century.

Zachary Scott Hamilton is garnished in barnacles, slathered in sea-foam, and covered in psychotropic silicons. As of late he lives beyond the greater domes of the western hemisphere, he resides in a basement along with fourteen wild Rats, two ghosts, and seventeen pet rats in Halloween, Oregon. Hallelujah!