the sky was clear but he couldn't see a thing. the sun was just touching the distant mountains on its way down and the flares throught he wind screen made him look down and try to search out his actual attitude and descent rate. a soft sounding horn punctuated itself with a pink, almost orange, flashing, light.Was this a deliberate attempt to shift the attention away from the story's aberrant structure by trying to focus on, point out , as it were, ah, was then, ah ,is, is because of an, oh, whatever; abberant truth? The dog was running sideways now because its attention was divided. Between amazement and terror; absurdly perfect. What this dog's brain did to writing was beautiful just like that. Whimsical tradgedies wading in luck and reaching for the beautity hidden somewhere in life, now the really bad dream, strangling because it couldn't be said that way, wiith words from mouths that either never exisited or faded in from somewhere else. The language could never keep up to begin with. And now it was changing so quickly, so many worlds now, mixing, calming down at the center, but surrounded by title waves of confusion, non-sense amplified, contrived situations dealing surprise death in the names , so mnay names now, of the glory of the country. the country that anihilated itself because of its genuine pursuit of knowledge and its inability to seperate the church and state. Where is the father and mother of us all? Ultimately I have to tell my most distant sister here, on the planet, that I have even outgrown the dream of romance itself, so worldy and crass and false when it is on the body and not in the mind, and yet my true aspirations are to lose myself totally in the warm darkness of women without fear. The tyrants that wrestle here, under words, frail shells for moving monstrosities circling me; preachers and generals coincide without knowing it and some really weird adjectival adverbial almost transparencies come streaming in, like you knew they would. riderless and saddled horses, circling. Sounds just leading your mind to where something was clearly doing something and that was the sound when that sound was lost, overpowered or subtly superceded. Oh, yes! You could see the language struggle with itself; the snake with its own tail in its mouth. Revelation(al) sales pitches complete with scriptural documentation. Million mile warrantys. (the dog began to bound) Uni-spectral.

It was useless to try and sort anything out now; the process had started. The huge dog ran across the countryside laughing at danger, big tounge loiling, brave as could be in his fantasy. (The horse looked like a circus clown riding a tiny unicycle as it flew in. It stopped in a hovering, wavering of balances that drew down and raised up and flailed around the two front feet. ) This was a huge and amazed dog out of control, actually. And enjoying itself. The fact that he(this dream-coyote hound) had been able to lie to everyone involved and avoid the detection of his real motives now seemed like a miracle. (A brilliant pinto with wide eyes, it was. And on the loose in the middle of Baghdad.) The neighbor that moved away but still could not escape. It had been a seemingly bad night. But, as always, it was just another fine example of inverse haiku. The morning was a sunless-low-ceilinged warm and windy upside down cup trying to conceal an obvious but subtle, (all the way into deep beauty), moving an(d) inert thing larger than it seemed, its whole so still self leaning like a drunk trying to draw a straight line. And even the lethargy of pointless self-discussion couldn't outweigh, and in fact augmented, the fear brought by the realization that actually nothing was clear, defined. The running animal grew weary to the point of,forgive,( 'yes, forgive the universe,the whole- thing- three- times- and- container(s) too) ,* the observant animal mumbled to itself as it circled and rocked in its parking orbit around nothing),. The loose screens, bent, rattling in a strong but inconsequential wind kept time sideways, and remembering became a chore. A wind that carried with it civilized lion dreams. Something else was looking out from shark eyes. No personality to drape the dream upon. No excuses possible or needed. Some direct connection to more, too, than could be seen. Because of so many loop holes, everywhere,i could just watch the dog run free.

They had just changed it too many times. Wish it could be said that it was just one final- 'one too many times'-, but the universe must persist. The man who while sitting at tea with his family in the morning, trying to be well intentioned in an atmosphere of belligerent but 'loving'* co-motion, decided finally to voice his feelings concerning the availability of necessities. Not then. Not there. In mind for this afternoon. Situations cascaded down and it changed so many times, so many things , beneath, among, amid, stranded in and surrounded by their motives. Emerging and transcending everything and arriving at a weariness of incomprehension of the ramifications of the most recent , yes, sooo yes, changes. The treachery was evident, had been for a long while. But he had avoided it because it was , well, his own. Oh, he had been betrayed in his calling, his art, his real motivation, that wingless light into things and other things, until the first impression was lost. Trampled by the laws of attraction and contraction. Only. He had been decieved by his own lust. Thinking knowledge the sacred trust. But that too smiled and lied. But. No one knew it but he sat there free now from guilt as only the guilty can be upon that realization. That it why the coyote laughs. That is the moon song. Nations die and the heart is not phased. Already it had consumed too much and thus enough to deaden even a notion of the value of feeling. What possible value! That there is no judgment except the obvious. Except the motion we put on. Our selves squared. Dancing mentally as if he were trying to convince his imagined audience that they were responsible for the torture inflicted upon pets in the name of something that made nationalities in their concept a poison beyond repair; it nourished itself on the imbalance that was a response to the rapid changes of direction and velocity of the tiny, try aircraft. He followed it as if he were trying to burn it with his attention. It grabbed him, immediately, of course, and made him write like a drunk and lazy crazy tiger in a lions den until he realized there was no paper! Nothing was there, at all! And until it had cast him free, this morning, into ruthless rogue thoughts that would make knowledge just too confusing, finally, for the mind, until then, it shook him with his own inertia until even logic was revealed to be clogging the gears of his roaring spiritual machines. He took a book that had hidden itself with his help below the bottom drawer of his 'the long lost desk'. It was Ouspensky's "IN SEARCH OF THE MIRACULOUS" Both sides of that fragile but so mighty flower seeding the non-air of the universe we really breath with potential and thus the delusion of time, yes, our own inalienable hunger for situational stability; a mixed metaphor of unquenchable opposites; wrong labels surrounding changing minds until all important fragile moments were lost. Intentionally misleading himself into the ones with the small elusive doorways to power beneath cow's bucket, being rocked by incredible hands, totally subservient now to the monkey king. Spontaneous leadership by those who still struggled with the obvious, sometimes playing beautiful music with invisible breathing vacuum breaths measuring nowhere to nowhere and painting it like the Seine at sunset dumping history by and into the sea!'*';the dual (and co-incidentally opposite and inverse) signs self-initiated when in their unbalanced and thus charged condition when placed outside of eachother's influence was reached out of necessity because of the use of the said symbols themselves until everything was circular.. That being now beside the point, human love is such a painful selfless dance that the suffering evaporates in the lure of novelty and fascination of just the dance. Never a duplicated move. If we are lucky enough to make good sense to someone. Sure, most of it was an attempt at the spectacular. Probably most of it was self defense in a gentle lullaby in 'd' on a harp**. Like Harpo played the blues for me on. And that never changed, even if the music raged.

*brutal brutal realization that 'love', in the human arena, in space and time, is hard handed pick and shovel work during the day and too fine to ever reach (a)finishing and joining, perfectly,impossibly pieces from different universes that had never experienced eachother before and still seemed to know completely everything about the other.. Making an exact match where it was not possible. To have it exist right there in spite of everything, anything.

**It must have been the one that Lucifer played alongside Michael when the praises of the light took fire and went there own way, when the blues were revealed, uncovered, displayed as the actual foundation of a life in time. Time counting differently every instant because there was no even state of mass, no eternity at all for matter; combustibles, all. I can see the strings making that humble and courageous face something other than to look at. His eyes were closed he was watching so closely.

An gentle old language guerilla, a real little vain godzilla, cornered Merlin himself by accident. He had just returned home from his ninth pursuit of headache relief by pilgrimage and as he approached his downtown room with almost exactly half and half relief and foreboding , fanatically maintaining the normalcy of this dangerous balance, as the levels on each side began to increase, creating a static that built quickly, impossibly far to go, towards the point where it would break the gap, and, just in time, it started to rain. And being on the street between a church and a bar he beat his common sense into silence and flipped a coin. It was really an excuse, to blame luck, but, life was tough. And being veteran of too many verbal-conflicts-with-dire-results to count, commander of fleets and fleets of all types of absurdly lonely words, now, in his catastrophe of a life, from only one perspective, he hoped, I am sure, reminded the bird in his own huge pocket(twice, like a fine fragile female hand surrounding his heart, whenever he wanted),and imaginary dog, absolutely that it was the manipulation of perspective by forces we unleash upon ourselves that needed to be controlled, focused, to nullify the thought of time growing larger and smaller in a simultaneous mathematical nullification, the thought that could not surround itself to see. A fishbowl turned into a crystal ball and released a dream. The terrible terrible tale of what the wizard Merlin was forced to bring upon the object of the Kings desire spilled forth into the myriad personalities gathered, lodged, somewhere, near on in or about the small crowd in the small room. It might be illegal to call the three of them even a small crowd, but, I give up, language is just too personally complicated for me to analyze on that level and still be able to speak, as I tried to sneak in just previously, the multi cultural and ethnic disorder apparent in the room(a bird, a dog, and and an old harmless looking man) was a mask and facade for the real unified and clear(commaless expansion like a flower on the roots of the exactly most terrifyingly exotic plant that only needs one pure square inch to survive...) thinking going on. They all in unison were thinking that they were a disgrace forever, a curse like the loss of virginity, but much deeper than this, before them now the only evidence; the household full of Merlin's voice, perhaps. The tribes. And here the perfect isolation made them so similar that they spontaneously rode the laws of the spiritual mechanics of household living to the combustion of their own precious identities. They swarmed up and into the spaces between them and became transparent. Became the nothing that they are all composed of. Even the need to live left the room with the drunks and skunks and lucky soldiers and priests convinced into stupidity, the hungry souls making music in the nights of their souls. So many more, so many more. Awakening becomes the mother of the invention of the moment. The creation of each moment that hunger brings. Finally even pain is useless. But persistent. These thoughts built walls around the three of them until they couldn't breath and had to imagine themselves as fish. Merlin spoke on, his voice deep with intense good will towards the idiots. To them, it was music. Time ground almost to a halt and Merlin grew old and died. It was all over with before anyone knew it. He came back as a dragon, of course. He lumbered in and asked without saying a word for their hospitality. They looked upon the diversion as a saving grace and burst into nonsense. Merlin, the dragon, laughed and burnt the couch.

Morning came up and in and pushed him. Time rolled over with him as he squirmed and turned and flopped away, a slowly gasping fish, twords sleep, almost annoyed enough to wake up and be angry about it. Almost desperately,( but not too desperately), not enough to wake up, this man tried to tip toe between a world that could not be seen but surrounded all and a world seen but not there. High art and civilization clashed in a synphony of death. Exploding just above the huge and old desk. An explosion with so little mass involved that it did not even pass the test, to cross the small room to touch the tiny brain of the paraqueet that was intensly identifying itself over and over, like a red aircraft beacon on a (tiny, tiny) radio tower. Everything seemed to be calling, now. High pitched mumbles sprouting randomly and flying away. Fragile birds of the great ray, of the star, were smothered by the dozens by the cruelly hollow notions, engendered by songs so angry they were unrecognizable, even as music, and right there, a little below and to the left(of course) sat a left handed dream. This was all in his mind. Around him his apartment struggled in the hopeless battle to regain the freedom of the nothingness of sleep. The bed shrieked. The ideas were too confusing to keep. The artist, in full mental regalia as demonstrated by the expression on his face, leaned back and raised both legs in the air. Not too high but enough to put his pants on both legs at a time. It was a real work of art to draw satisfation and notions of a just revenge against art for its betrayal in deception(s) ; the attempt to return from the many to the one personified here by the common tricks of the trade of logic. So treacherous(ly) un moving where nothing is still. Nothing can be still. Time and motion, which is weight, mass, being somewhere(to create the 'motion'). The million and five year old new born (for the thousandth thousandth time) wanna be artist stood and gathered himself up in his mind, in his mind, and tried to make himself look like he meant business. That he was on and in and doing business of very high importance. Of some kind. Of somekind, too. And knowing the lie he put it on as a friend. He smoothed the fringes of his daniel boon jacket with a magic hand. He glanced twords the babbling bird and recieved a silence aching with a question. Above all that and more he turned to the window and threw back the curtains.

The dog had nothing to do with it but suffered greatly because of it. Some nine thousand lives had been devoted solely to the art of composing haiku. Of taking that so Japanese word weapon of rhythms, of foreign foreign drums, and weilding it like a scythe made of nuclear words intolerant and incompatible with reality, at all, at all. Spelling Some would later call an indirect influence, but, how indirect is getting kicked in the ribs, I ask you. The vacum of intent that this phenomenon created made it impossible for the animal to relate at all to anythig human. The lonliness was psychotic in its sociopathic intent. It was an accident, like everything else, and probably would be called an act of god in a court room. The dog resembled right and left handed molecules being proximitized and then, with the help of the right vibrations(from a 'D' tuned twelve by six) becoming stable enough (like oxygenated magnesium)to be stomachless. Her joints were musically gymballed because she loved the word too much and was designed to be out of her own control when acted upon; when even touched through a thin-air eye as the look of a face decides history, complete. Faithful dog-bird always pointing home, leading nowhere; the perfect inverse hyku.

Without his really being aware of it his desk had turned, grown, moved itself, until it became a cave. Based on Plato's vision, of course, but somewhat carnalized by his own contemporary tastes. This morning as he made his entrance he bumped his head on one of the stalags hanging in a pocket of dark that would have been usually over his left shoulder. He saw lights flash and felt gyroscopes begin to tumble and extinguish their precious inertia. He became frustrated as the loads of details he was trying to carry fell and were immediately covered with ancient dust from the roof. He waited until everything had somewhat settled and then gently shook his head. He approached the chair with concern and sat as if he trusted nothing could or would stop him from sinking to the very center. Now, thinking like the shark he had become, he took his mind and shook it again. This time with italicized venemence. Mechanical pencils flew in almost every direction. He stood quickly and pushed back the now malignant mechanics of his gambled chair. And it screamed like a pack of hungry and descending banshees through its dry wheel bearings. This sound was like a sword and it neatly disengaged, brutally, the train from the locomotive straining in mind. And it was as if this had put a rocket, a big rocket, behind the train. He had been slowly trying to force his thoughts into an alignment with the universe as a whole. He was trying to un-rough the edges that appeared spontaneously as local opposites were forced to approach a common vicinity. But now this unleashed rocket dog on a run away train was in heaven; surrounded now by totally ubiquitous potentials, mixing spiritual mechanics with peculiar intent, the unknown roaring, beautifully, moving faster and faster, going nowhere, of course, and crossing everything like a mind's eye out of focus at last, at last, and, of course, the dog yoddled at the moon and it rained deserts everywhere.

the multi universe gathered itself together and sneezed.

He had the dog by the throat and was holding it at arms length as he walked. He was trying to watch three things at once, do three things at once, and remember that this dog was not poisonous(obviously because of the one white foot). The dog had quickly realized that resistance was futile and was as relaxed as death, hanging on the underside of its chinbone. Now, this was not because some machinery was broken on either side, nor above or below. Nothing seemed amiss; everything hummed pleasantly. But the man who was extending this dog through its potential, its dreams, turned exactly the wrong way, and in such a gentle and civilized manner, it seemed as if a poem had tried to go bad but the rhythms had saved the day. The truth was far from this. As both man and beast breathed clouds and noise into this perfectly frozen morning and crunched brightly through the darkness still under the trees, a pot lost its water under high heat. Back in the barn, the center of the universe. For today.

Just before the desk he was seated at and was trying to control, with mind games, just prior to it's almost seizure like bid for some kind of existential freedom, Chuck had a premonition. Some would have called it an itch. Someone else, way in back but with a real voice, would have immediately stood and said in a controlled and ultra refined shout(that itches) that 'itches', 'itching' and 'superstitions' bore no resemblance(!) to one another. This 'someone else' began a ritual of 'beginning' where the 'end' were a beginning, as if they were at the center of their very own and dear home. They spreadout like the crowd they had become bowing the mained head and arms like mutual dual fulcrums scissoring and twisting out to both sides, someone, as they seated themselves like an advancing warm front descending on ice river's land in front, topside,  doing huge heroic ti chi interpretations of kung fu. Sliding now, after running  slowly and carefully, arms full of code they were trying to get rid of, gaining unbalanced momentum until the trade became perfect and everything tensed its stomach muscles and slid and slid. I would have simply called it a cosmic inclination and let it go at that but, well, I am not, ah, me. I mean there is no me. But there is this inclination to speak. Describe the inverse haiku tortured into reversal and revelation as children dance in secret costumes the law fails to identify nor contain the power of belief this engenders a multiplication of inverse inspiration the president himself desires heaven himself more than what can be plainly seen, anyone with eyes at all of any kind. The mechanical ones are paranoically unreliable and upside down where such a thing does not exist, really, and, yes , the creature sat and dreamed a red lake running into no mountain, the sand seem like water, their feet hissing , nothing missing, drenched with sin in every breath to find it is only a missunderstanding. to save the sanity the words are drained to a forty nine nine super line percent of a previously prepared .oo3 molar solution of general sarcastic drivel on a back ground of totally painless living accommodations to ease the pain , and the resultant fire retardant is consumed in liberal and frequent mega doses. Throughout the day. and night. until the machinery itself goes awry, runs amok.

he crawled out from underneath the desk. But not quite far enough. He banged his head blind on the open middle drawer and staggered ,on bended knees(!), hands clutched to his head, sounding like he was mowing the(a) lawn in his brain, or, of his brain, trying to keep the now flying free rakeless debris inside his now leaking, badly, head,brain..., only his inert laziness saved him from going immediately, catatonically, insane. The fact that he knew he should go but had no where to, now, totally surrounded by the vital intrinsic rules of the universe of language, totally dependent on that ring of truth. Listening like a waterfall just making hugeness call, voices so small. Yes, the very one, the exact voice, just as it was when it first came forth and surrounded "inevitably" with all the time it needed to construct anything it needed to commit and then perpetuate , forgive me or not here it comes, this crime. With the very same issues, that changed nothing, that 'inverse haiku' butcher butchered in the dead center of sanity completely still. So still that the universe rushing by can confuse, frighten, but never touch without permission. And now this trickster of a coyote word broke into the dream and stayed sane, this one who said that that not only could they state the truth clearly , concisely and musically, but could move even a mountain soul into singing sea sands. The word in it all was a blind automatic backfire full upon the conscience of any mortal who dared or else through ignorance was graced like the fool dancing above such magnificent canyons, who flagrantatized his restraint upon others; steel in the open drawer of the moon, upon the plate of the sky, and, mud in our eye.

he stood and opened his eyes. A herd of quad-reflexed spontaneous nervous combustions raced down his arm but were stopped and trampled themselves when they could not get over under or around or through the sleeping inevitabilities completely encircling the wrist. The wrist of faith. Now, to avoid seemingly a divergence for lack of current direction, inexcusably, although inexplicably, anything involved might be, to any degree including those shrouded in negativity, let me here not refrain from using vulgar logic to sustain what must be for my own safety a breaking of the word into three, yes, not insanity but into insanity where the two negatives somehow surround themselves out of existence. For a while.  stable. it was a heck of a black eye.

You might imagine that a dog in the middle of a really superb identity crisis

{one with all the available terrible aspects
((selfpity leading a herd of these thirsty over weight cows over a nice green hill to view a wilderness beyond comprehension))
brought by something for some reason, to bear on that one struggling non extant point},

would attempt to run and hide, dig a really deep hole and at least survive. But no. Somewhere way way out in and on that too huge for words totally entropic wasteland(*) the animal dug up twenty nine (and considerable debris located to the right of that point, unavoidably) distorted memories of eighty-four masters and extracted anything that even remotely resembled what might be called music, or song. Laying out the pieces like broken bugs in the dust she became more confused than her( twice removed to seclusion public(*)) personality could handle and she went up a level in her current dream to a characters she rarely used, one over flowing with self imposed logical "justifications". ((((this word{(')s} {was a} 'wild animal' had broken loose and turned on itself and even the key board squirmed will hitting it, slapping the pieces into shape))
. She now knew her unrealized terror had magnetized her paws to the point they were now magnificent hands. A huge mother of necessity making crystal out of all jello and voicing an invention in what must have been the antithesis of song, even rhythm was absent. This simple diversion of attention allowed her to sail over the gaping maw of hell itself with a smile. And she smiled a tiny perfect one, tiny mouth barely moving, and she was watching someone else reach for her, with those now delicate dancing extending and arching fingers, and begin to arrange the objects. There was a dented shinny toy auto mobile with a long roof, all the way to the back. On the side was a small distorted picture of an old airplane and this made the animal experiece the medicinal ritual and inverse drama of tea. Sprouting from the earth and reaching all the way through. Amazing transformations were occurring with language and it all seemed so tiny now that even with glasses at full volume and a brand new time bottle the very edgess of the table marched in with every vibration. Sailing down through trying to push gravity, thoughts themselves could be seen shaking everything in a way never imagined. They were instinctively trying to dissipate but there was a rouge will present(probably their own creation) that wanted them to persist at all cost. Because of this belligerent untwisting of a innocent, simple,purple helix deep in a green and moonless night, she had no choice. "Fate", some drunk and exasperated poet would try to say thirty three and a third years
(a time shark slithered in with the thought of bad cheese and tore the huge clock on the wall off and into so many pieces that there literally was no where to go)

ago

on paper with pen. Imagine!

So

, in true
ancient Egyptian and truly south American and definitely from the very heart of china,
bits of Africa everywhere,
genes and culture like the magnesium diving tank found in Beijing and dated to the first world series
, so,


planetised to the bone

going home

she hurled a long stormy night across
herself to hide
a heart that had imprisoned her with unwanted pride
forced upon herself
that she survive
in the hungry living world
outside



beneath the sea of all the nonsense so known
she will make herself wander, yes, roam
until one night over some hill
she spies home.

her lizard mind then will sleep
(no more watch to keep)
and become
just like the rib that Adam bid be undone
knowing now what the balance's sum
is when absolutely nothing can be done

And
so
just a small mark on some distant dune
the coyote dreams of finding the tune
that does indeed silence the moon
calling to no one too soon
so soon
too soon

* Permits in possession but (therefore) not available, but present and accounted for;all questions and comment please see all permits and directions under their descriptions located underneath the whole stack.

"ahhhh......a great plan", some one said as if they were shrugging their shoulders ,which they were, holding them up for the count of two and a half, first. They, the two of them , stood twice for each of them in anticipation of somehow gentling this catastrophe with words, but, st,standing before a pile of stuff from what used to be a movie theartre, misspelled opon purpose twice, an open purpose found by mistake seems nice. Nice enough and they turned to eachother and redid the whole thing, the entire movie, at least. The inspected eachothers' face quickly for the support needed for such a surrender in such a battle. The glorious glorious itself pushed its way through and in with tropical enenomiotic brilliance when it devours any reason. Open purpose beyond anything to be seen here. Finally they took the dog and brought it up on the remains of the short shallow stage squatting before a huge hole looking out on forever through a blue blue sky. A small jerk wind lifted a handful of ashes and dropped them again. The ssound tasted very bad. The dog was circling now blowing to smell and then sneezing. They held hands as they looked close. "ahhhh...", in multipitched unison. The flaps were fully extend and the dog's tail began to thump, Morse, the dog's tail 'morsed', if you will, (please, I care not what begging seems, I understand what it is), the call letters of an airport almost in the tundra. Flat but possibly treacherous because of that, possibly extremely lucky, never impressed by horsepower, playing a waiting game because they had to, the fabled contagious herd of pseudo wild dogs descending in pieces from the brain to the falangee crowd. And they, they, were circling like flanges,beating letters senseles, senseless and then sealing them together in a pseudo tube. Taking the limp chocking and strangling almost-entities and useing the idea and picture included of suasage. A sausage of such things you would never imagine could be put together and turn out so, tempteing, or addictive. Twisted words reaching somewhere they shouldn't and getting paid for it. Loose perspectives letting me make a sinner out of all of us in the story; none of us had enough time. The dog smelled like ashes stitting up on the back seat surveying wht it did not understand as if that were not the issue. and a language trapp sprung and konched him on his beaner, man. The birth of the big z and the revelation of a new historical document to fix the future came running, no, hurtling , in from both sides. Yes, your exactly right! Mutual annihilation and a subsequent sunburn for all religious ideas and linguistic mutualised abnormalitiy laws. I really wish you might have seen that animal drive that aeroplane. It was as if he had found his clothes.

On the other side of the world he was sick to death of her pseudo Spanish culture. eversince she had watched a documentary about the Spanish attempt at conquest of the planet her Mexican grandparents had entered a land of puzzeldom that hurt brilliantly in Spanish, bad Spanish deriding Mexican interpretation. The perfect, once again, ironic sphere buzzing the blackness full. And her nose from China was Aztec to the bone. And Zulu build from England spoke of a planet culture that could never more be located. She sat as straight and as still as she could, breathing in, slowly, and breathing out more so, counting slower and slower until extinguished. He tried to nudge her with his eyes but it was already too late; the half-drunk overly congenial lady immediately to her right had already past the point of no return by letting a reply to her simple, "Como esta?" slip in and elongate itself. Quadratically. Canine lupis that she was, her genetic trickiness almost overcame her sense of poetic justice. The tremendously intricate balance she achieved between and among these strangers was amazing. She had taken out her compact surgical tool kit repair feature from her stationary twice reader and was focusing the three vectors to the heart of the word she had trapped like a desert mouse and placed on her still naked plate. The soup hadn't even come. Her voice started small and pointed extremely high and fast and by the time it had surrounded the third or fourth syllable
of the one syllable word she was repeating like a generator warming up for new York, she had snipped and cut so many references that it was a completely intent free field. That is how 'como esta' made it to 'como se yama' and when the singularity was suddenly the container of the secondary, time was exceeded, simply out done, and a stage was set in her mind and she climbed up and on. "Does that mean my spit is on automatic when you call my name!!!" This was the fabled knife of words that split the belly of the universe and simple humor gushed out like fake guts and laughter's cure was for all. And everyone. Except the lizard living in the dog's mind that was convinced no one else saw or knew that there was no culture at all , no nations, no real reasons except to shake eachother up, for the hell of it. She continued now that she had their attention frozen on their faces in disbelief. In the primed and teetering silence there was a cyclone wave ready everywhere to turn the room crazy with shrieking laughter but for even a tiny sound. "Pavlovian druids, mathematical lovers, ..." She pointed at the comas, one by one, and almost knocked the first one she attacked with her extended forefinger off their chair and she moved fast enough to get to number the ninth before some pyromaniac started it by involuntarily grunting in a very high pitch as they pinched their little finger by mistake while trying to snap shut a purse. As the laughter died down, quickly, I might add, as everyone realized it was a dog, no, a coyote, on the table. Someone tried to sound offended now and stuttered,"but, the table, scratched..." And was it ever. The now self-traumatized animal was running at at least ten knots going nowhere, except down a fraction of an inch as the surface of the table peeled away. "Marriage I say for the beast and they. Until death do they part ways. Make peace with yourself and your animal today!!" and she runs away.

The reality of the situation was that one old man refused to stop insisting. Everyone and everything had been ready. Lined up to go. Ready to roll. But this old man, this really cranky guy, and slow, so slow, wants to take his dog too. His tiny non-desert mutt. His inbred screaming straight from the very heart of fear, can it be said, dog, canine, so completely non lupis.(special permit is on file for supra non hyphenated adjectives)So the story goes. On a tremendously stormy night in a small room. There was nothing stopping anything anymore and a planet was born. He was afraid at first that he would not, could not, might not, let the old man with the small dog on his back touch bottom before the current tore him away but, quickly now, fingers running around as if they danced fire into existence, his supra over extended big toe (made more because of his tremendous thinking)made immediate contact, and bent the wrong way. Dropping quickly and catching himself on his other foot he wasn't even wet to the waist. He lurched himself up to re-settle his, may I chirp in, 'magnificent, so magnificent,' load. He was carrying his office on his back. Well, it was draped all over him. In his way forever and always no matter how he tried to move it,and himself. In several suspended and swinging pieces, it banged, almost beat, him continually and mercilessly. Now, balanced and breathing hard, the old man tried to squint-out the shore. In his mind he lashed down a loose snake that almost broke free in its momentary terror powered re-action. He juggled reasons over the heads of the rest of the tribe of song snakes, their disregard for the commercial and proper forcing language usually used in these situations was dangerous now. Freedom pluralisations were spontaneously combusting everywhere and music was immanent. He let his feet do the walking in tiny pieces. His toes and the stones singing.

The dog brought it in to him. She came in almost guilty, ears not quite flat. She did not move her head to the side as she stopped sideways infront of her local diety. She had raised her brows and the eyes held an angle up at the old man to watch the eyes and face when he saw and realized what she had. She laid it and herself down with a short humming grunt and unlocked her ears completely to attention as she turned her so coyote visage upon Chuck(the full educational name later)that seemed to be expecting like a train out of control two inches from a wall, somewhere in her inversed hiaku. The air between them prickeled with, what can I say, except, honesty. Chuck looked at what appeared to be a sock and thought, 'who?', but then noticed something stuffed inside. A scroll was emerging in the hope-well of his mind because the corner of what might be paper or vellum or parchment, maybe a calligraphied non-comformaty, maybe shark braille to lay upon the bottom of a sea too still and too bright to scratch their stomachs, and he grabbed it.

If it had not already been started and wasn't a galaxy-mile long she would have erased it and walked away. As it was it was almost as if she had because she could hardly remember a thing. Over her shoulder, as she tried to find a comfortable spot in her really tense but rolling,swiveling, chair, while she looked for a leak in her airtight reasoning, at just the exact moment it needed for its own annihilation, behind her, a maniac, in bird-form, screamed out of the blue and tore her apart. As she whipped up and forward in the chair and placed plastic looking hands on a filthy keyboard, a small voice told her clearly that she should have known, and as she immediately and reflexively began constructing the defensive argument, that small voice disintegrated as well, taking everything, everything else, with it. Everything. Then, well, a horizon, first and must, as the one, that is already two, is. And this natural separation caused by a simple combination of perspectives(above, below)brought attention to a virgin naked wilderness of universes put inside the head of, listen!, bird-dog coyote-airplane(looking close I could see her face dancing with her fingers as she walked in a desperate joy somewhere very 'else'). And she poured hope into hopeless journey after hopeless journey and watched it run out the bottom where she couldn't see, at all, because she had to keep a dog afloat. Some jerk had tossed the poor beasty over board in a storm for no other reason than to bring things to a close. Put the magic, big, period some where where it could, would, stop something for a reason. But it seemed she had stumbled into the realm of the terrific inverse haiku and all her periods where now blown-out cabin doors on space ships about to launch. She had had to initiate escape procedure before initiating the count down. She looked out and down to the hot white concrete apron through the open hatch now and saw somthing move quickly behind a parked truck. She looked closer, touching hardly a vowel, aware that panic had breathed up her back because of an overload of Chinese invisible sounds. She tried to curse her dark hair and eyes but her hands tore it from her lips and brought out and up the lettering on the side of the truck. She moved and started to read onto the page but, again, something moved just somewhere else and she dropped it all. She scanned a brand new horizon and a realization tried to get familiar. She had to follow her own tracks. Of course she hadn't made them yet, but, as far-out as she was now, no matter. No matter at all.

He could have predicted this. He knew he should have. He had chosen not to. Chosen to not acknowledge the inevitable result of getting exactly what he wanted. The very instant it was obtained it ceased to be what it was thought to be. There was , then , no more chance for denial. And the chore became getting rid of it and in the proper context. Getting it out of the house in a respectable way where there would be no fallout from the neighbors. Led or carried out as if there were simpl a new destination for this, this, ah.... Out of the way of the new campaign. (sparking off a culturless reference point and presenting all the radials at once the point of view becomes all encompassing). A direction picked because of the prevailing winds, the state of the moon and night blindness. Stapleing reasons all over the sleeping backs of possible motivations with nil return and other than the search for true sleep no resolve could be made out of, the clawing we do to order that which changes its number, and automatically, no less, everytime it is counted, betraying the very words themselves. Relative values of bench marks becoming obscurred of neccesity by perpetual motion everywhere. Tasteing around the edges with constraining constructs meant to divert atttention from the more obvious protrubences upon , yes, the back, as well, of wandering truths. Searching for the circumstances to present themselves at our almost knowlegable bidding which they take and make so exactly literally that that it frightens him out of bounds and back to sleep. The dog was flying again and the old man had his hat as he made for the dark back door he had made exactly that way on purpose. He loved the spring for its song as it was wrenched into vibration by big Carlos and his on purpose careless hands. So on purposely careless. Just like any weapon. especially words. Especially wounded words in trouble with the law. Or the ones that i convince my heart with everytime i see the end in the beginning again and try to streach that wire nice enough to sing for me and make me feel that even nothing is worth while. See, the perfect silence of a smile!?

The only thing she could do now was follow the trail. It was her long and, accroding to her, herself, 'fantastically regal' nose that had gotten her, lead her, into this situation. She chuckled thinking of the also magnificent reference following her around. She took it in her clairvoiant and immovable editor's paws. She looked down as she trotted across the hissing sands and watched. She wanted to howl and bring a dangerous and cold full moon out but knew better, now. She just followed her nose. She lined up pavlovian logics and let the ghost of free will kick the life out of them. She struggled with her beauty. She knew there were connections between the soul and the earth. She used them. All the time. But it was different now because her nose was sending siliva to her mouth because of curiosity. Not hunger. Not thirst. She found herself in that world between worlds where people and things can only write descriptions and send them anonimously to a really sci-fi general delivery. She thanked the great spirit god beyond all names that she was alone, automatically degenerating herself into her mantra mode. The pangs were not so bright, now, she kept herself thinking as she turned miles into memories.

.for the tenth time he crouched over the mechanical device...

Charles first turned out the lights and sat in front of the window and let his eyes adjust.

For the nineteenth time this morning Zilla Dog, the coyote, woke up. She had not a clue. No idea at all as to where she was. And it was, yes, of course, pitch black. She was listening instinctively and frightened herself, again, when she did not recognize her own breathing. It sounded alien making its way to her one good ear which had been mashed in sleep by her beautiful and now wide eyed blind head. She wondered that her sounds sounded strange but quickly sought to determine what her head lay upon. And where was that? She uselessly closed her useless eyes and was caught by the Toa of it. The tiny complete loop fooling everythig within a terra pico'd light bulge surrounding her breath, as it emerged used, that there was no such thing as blindness. She took comfort from the thin waiting air because she had to and could. She reached, instinctively, here, too, and found just beyond the lip of time an emergency pack of song snakes. Eyes closed like ice doors but blazing like crazy she painted songs all over the brutal chest and arms of night that whirled a confusion that would compel a raging attacking lion or locked-on shark to veer away as if passage here were not only impossible but lethal. A perfect reflection advancing upon all fronts. Falling barometers and a fear that was frightened only of the sensation of it's self, both ultimately causeless and thus unassailable. Zilla was dreaming totally as hard as she could and still her ear hurt.

One more time from the stomach of nothing persistance caused heart burn. Like a clockwork of thin air it magnetized eyes into being and proceeded to mash them into the grid of reality and precipitate a very blind mind. Launched as if it must run to live it quickly took charge, or thought it did , in its own mind, from its own fabricated point of view. So, the long way around and it comes down to this, it would seem. That the dog does not choose, usually, and the bird doesn't even consider that aspect of it. The lizard is everywhere, the foundation of things, the electric potential, the blind eye thinking.

The king lizard came out into the broiling noon sun that spray painted the shinning sand with something much too hot to touch. The hot and poisonous fumes that roiled up everywhere made the royal breaths shallow, quick, and irregular. The animal scurried a meter and froze, except for two or three quickdraw moves with its head and bouncing eyeballs blinking, and flashed out of sight. It seemed to leave a wake, wavering over the vauge tracks and consumed by the waves of heat hanging in an almost invisible surf just above the furnace sands. Quickly, quickly, he leaned over and grabbed the two enhancers jammed into the springs under the seat. He was able to get them both at once and immediatly things were clearer and not as large. The sound of the sand under the animals feet sounded like tissue tearing slowly..

This is the typing lesson given to the king lizard in his cell. He had to type in his mind, of course, but he got good. Even learned to spell, a little, enough, maybe. And his love of the simple sound of speech, even only imagined, drove him to continue speaking, even if only in his mind. There he began to dwell in a vision dream of flight. He began to type blind now, staring off into the space in his head, seeing nothing, seeing everything. He developed a hunger for brilliant colors flying and tried to sound out an approach. Imaginary fingers flew! He developed songs all around their feeble flailings so full of the edges of reality that the blood and pain on the fingertips of the angel Gabriel proclaiming the glory of flight turned the sky to night. Dreaming on relentlessly, lessons in hand. Flying hands. Strange demands. Recipricle commands. Messages in the sand.

The lonely lonely writer was working on his own lizard brain while he watched the tiny flying machine shed its personalities. The tiny thing could make no sense of the dimensions within dimensions that its double cage provided. The smaller one made of wire and the other, larger, was the house that contained them. The bird made no noise. It stared into space breathing rapidly. It blinked its blank eyes and shivered. The author tried to forgive the human race for making 'pets' out of anything and wondered how it was possible to make anyhing so ludicrous right. She had her left brian in compound low and her right boiled up behind her other eye and tried to impose reason upon crime. Some kind of inverse manifest destiny was occuring here and the wordsmith took the only shelter available; the brain of the parakeet. Oh, yes, totally blown,out of its own framework, flopping like a dying fish beside its bowl. Its heroic leap having torn away everything familiar. Its pulsing frantic eyes sudenly yearning to blink. Incomprehensible air and bowl and table top. It was the end of the line. Somewhere proud music softly convinced us otherwise and we carried on with the trama, proud of it, somehow, and the huge remorse put off till later. Until there wasn't anymore 'later' and a door opened and a dog and a bird stunned themselves by steping out into the middle of the bigest desert that had ever existed anywhere, ever. Their minds were vacum squared. A single piece of time streached forever in every direction. It was an innocent intrusion, probably innocent, that saved them by putting their attention on a detail; the small shape darting over the top of a dune. They followed. There was nothing else to do. Certainly no where to go and no reason to go, either. Except the 'why not?' of the small tracks. If you are thinking that the bird rode proudly on the head of the canine, you are not correct, but close; the tiny winged thing rode behind the head, between the shoulders, glancing first one eye there and then the other here, and quick, quick. Tey were probably mumbling to themselves, not hearing eachother at all. And watching were the tracks led. Whenever the , forgive me, coyote, brushed the trail with her nose the bird felt naked. And bent down then streached straight straight up and thin thin, then down, then, unable to stand the prescence of the unkown, up, again, into the now terrified air.

A dog with pockets would truely be a hopeless situation. Especially if the master were inclined to take advantage of the situation. Were lazy, maybe, and would think himself generous in including the animal in his life by never using his own pockets and soon wore only clothes without them. The dog began, of course, to jingle whenever she trotted along and left tiny pools of glistening change wherever she lay down. Slowly a counter balance was reached for and connected to and the dog grew hands. Suddenly the hound, the female coyote, reached the point in her mind where she reached completely through the chrome and noise and circles and took the instrument in her beautiful asian hands. She let some tiny elm leaf moon shadows move across the viens on the back of her marble hand as she wrote. She wrote zero to infinity by way of googlized personalities on the very edge of sensation. She put flames up the back of a silk dress but didn't touch the hair. She throttled back and listened. Praying for the right gust of wind. She closed an eye and tried to see the airspeed indicator. It flapped like a humming bird with a wing shot off, about to die, flapping like a fuel starved car; fast, then broken, then fast.....

Zilla slipped onto the bus behind, almost underneath, a bag carrying old man flailng himself in a frantic search for his billet. She sat, instictively, of course, so that, without anyone's intent or knowledge, the mirrors in front that the driver used in mysterious ways, bounced the light from their eyes directly, straight, into each other's. No one noticed. No one cared. Until the driver, after pulling out into the bright traffic of this morning, looking up, smacked into an image of a dog with hands. Charlie Finch, the fifty-two year old vegetarian widower behind the wheel, pulled his eyes back to the road when a horn blared and the sound of tires becoming part of the pavement blotted out even the totally bizzare creature ridding behind him. The impact was perfect although no actual contact was made. It was a mental impact of the sort that forced a new perspective upon everything. Suddenly Charlie and the now-Charlie's dog found themselves in unknown territory filled with magnets and vectors and dangerous thoughts. They tried not to look at each other. And admit out loud in the silence the knowledge that now existed in the room they now found themselves in. Charles would not could not look at the dog's hands and the 'dog' was psychotically determined to fly. Become a small flamming bird and destroy the night sky. They fell out into the belly of creation. To be digested. They were now approaching fourth street , prepareing to make the turn, when an old oldsmobille four-fourty-two, just like an wild animal, roared by with its mouth gaping open on the side and within that a pale face dream face of a tough heart in pain. The attention contained at some crucial point was deflected and everything imploded. Completely. Into nothing.

In order for the initial creation to occur it was necessary that the artist metemorphically manipulate an antropormorphic quality thrown into thin air, (by chance, mind you, by chance), and extract, before the time was up and a huge bell rang, a bird. This, as far as I know, only occurs only on the third moon of the sun. And only at noon, high noon. And so, a bird, dressed as a dog, who wanted so much to be a real coyote, dashed around and around, trying to follow the sun. And when ever it happened to be noon, whenever the, let me gently and lovingly say here, 'bitch dog lizard flying coyote', whenever she might , by chance and magnetic fields, intersect high noon, well, you must know the rest. The part where the heart surges up and allows reason it first and only answer in the form of a dream. The dream that time is endless because human love can stop it. Wash it away in the bottomless pit of sex. The dream that can never be but because of the nature of things will never leave. The genisis of pain as a motivation to dream. The genius of the game that makes cruelty not seem mean. The bird and dog and lizard brain reached through and through eachother until they, yes, went insane. And, magically, hands tried to undo themselves and not be placed between the window and the light, or balled into fists to fight, or placed on a mouth become trite, or held up in the midle of the night, in fright, with all might, no sight; feeling for all their worth the very earth from wence they came.

It was a bird like no other had ever been. Marbled with colors that confused the eye gently into blinking to see better, to comprehend. And the way it moved itself where it was, unclear though that was,and is, made all dance seem superficial. It was proud and confident yet on the very verge of panic. It was a strut into surely lurking peril. And all of it covered with a pure humor that must have been initially the greatgodnamelessone's own, alone. But it spread, as spread it must; like love , real love, laughter was good and true medicine. And the song that draped itself throughout everything present or not was the most beautiful and complicated softly intense almost spiritual comentary ever heard. Done with and in whistles, chirps, and small screeches, woven, with warbles, into what I must believe speech was meant to sound like , when all was said, before anything was done..... but, the poor creature was................................

It was a bird caught in the metaphysical cage of a reptile brain-nucleus that had been literally, though by mistake, smashed into the gentic sequencing of a primary canis lupis exotica. This was on the third moon of the sun. And several billion years ago............

He had tried to leave her. By the side of the road. In a strange town. He had tried to decieve her. He had set her adrift in a leaky row boat in the middle of a storm. He had tried to please her. Assuring her that a broken boat was her only chance, convincing her in the middle of a poetic confusion on the foredeck, when I had the drunken first mate lower the boat right under neath the anchor........ but everything was moving so unpredictably, it was usless to even try and I had the anchor remain fast as I loosed her boat. And watched from the tossing bridge as a huge breaker swallowed her and the boat whole. And then he had to breath for her. He had written until his mind was lopsided and one eye useless, but still, still, the damn dog hung on. Re-appearing in the most unlikely places, where ever the plot line needed new direction, and before anything new could arrive and try to develop; in popped the canus. Oh, this dog, lupis was all over her lizard mind. And she let it in as if she were playing the music in the muscle tissue of the sun, the deep sun. She spun into the room, chasing her tail, of course, and dissappeared under my table. It shook and she groaned as she lowered her circleing self down. And a small charge, maybe, a pico joule, leaked past the last edge of the sleeping snake. And suddenly,a whole new earth revealed itself, splendid, yes, but full of crazy dogs

Inverse Hyku

by
Godzilla, jr.

dedicated to the part of life that dreams no matter what

How on earth did this pen fall into the hands of a almost coyote dog? How did she manage to get and use those? And write a story backwards. Well, it was life's story, wasn't it? And(yes, this she told me) life was always written backwards, wasn't it? Until, until, the end becomes the means. When, as even dogs must see, we get what we give, not what we want. Until we want nothing and have everything. And, oh yes, use it wisely. The brief flames of humans and dogs. Flowers and logs. Seas and bogs. The night and the fog. All things passing in beautiful beautiful inverse hyku. Love already lost allows the saint in all life to truelly love, unconditionally, like these flames must and thus create whatever is below above, were death holds no fear, love no torment, and hell, itself, well, just dissappears. So, there once was a dog who, briefly, who held no fear....was held by none......her writing life just begun.........

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............................................

She had tried to write herself out of her situation three times already and it wasn't even the afternoon, really.But there just seemed to be too many magnets all around her and her mind just wouldn't believe there was such a thing as a straight line through any story. Alot of things seemed to be lieing compulsively, out of instinct, perhaps. Possible motives surrounded completely innocent components, individual moments, until they went insane. And this was without a visible trace of it on visage, if there were one, or shape, nor anyother simple exterior display of the ultimate crisis occurring inside. Of course there were more subtle indications. Yes, manifestations of very very inverse hyku. At every approach there were too many explanations and theories and wild suppositions doing everything they possibly could to change import and signifigance and only c9onfusing the issue(s)....she bore down and through.It was all she could do. Hoping to emerge into the pure nothing she needed to encourage that waiting spark of creation she had allowed herself to be diverted into a smoky livingroom somewhere that was too dark to see clearly exactly who or what was there. She just knew it was a living room. Even before3 she entered. Even before the story began to write itself. It was her irresponsibility that made her enter even though she knew she should not. It wasn't where she was going. It waas back in the corner again.

She came to when she almost tripped over a fleeing mouse. It streaked out of nowhere right across her path and something in her lizard brain noticed and flooded her circuits with supra-conductive attitudes and she spazzed out when she tried to pull up all her feet at once. It was the middle of a crystyle clear night, of course, and the desert could have swallowed them in less than an instant except that there was no guile here. As the bitch scrambled and pulled herself together in the nick of time, the rodent, convinced that it had met its end, gave a squeal loaded with desperate final terror and jumped mindlessly. Their eyes met. Literally. The actual surface of their left eyeballs met and for all practical purposes, kissed. And it was only twenty-one hundred. Orion hadn't even nudged itself into the summer sky. She did a complete shut down and transferred herself as quickly as possible to the nearest liquor store; Flagstaff, Arizona. She had one eye closed, afraid to even try it and she bumped her head on the bumper of an old old gmc because of this. And this made her close both her eyes. And now, the sound of her head hitting the glass doors of the store was so starting that the little old lady on her way out and just about to push that door open lost it as completely as the dog had earlier. Her sheik went from totally terrified surprise to an annoyed wine as she watched her bag of groceries disolve as it tore it self to pieces in her frantic grasp. Yes, of course, this coyote did an immediate inverse hyku and landed on the poor mouse as she colapsed on the sand to think this throiugh. Figure something out. The mose lay still. So still. Not breathing made even the parts of the parts of a moment seem like an ocean. Time turned sharply enough to seemingly disappear. Orion had no where to go, anyways, and so just watched. As completely and perfectly as superstition does. The tiny animal knew it had to breath and also that it must not. The two opposites approached eachother with such resistaance that they each grew stupendous in their appearence. The exact number of molecules in those tiny trapped lungs got counted seventeen times. With he same finite answer. When time could no longer balance on the knife edge between them, it fell, and drenched everyting with basic instinct. The dog left the now completely confused mouse in another hyku. But this time she missed her mark and ended up on the backside of the store, an alley. Wet and noisy. Loud to the point of silence. Smelling like the inside of dirty water.

The dog had cornered itself again. Too afraid to run out of it and made senless with fear staying where she was, lizard instincts began to yodle, and into her clenched lungs crept enough air to eventually inverse hyku the strange sound her lungs were making sucking air throught the grantie her whole body had become. Shivering granite. Expending full throttle and almost still. Perhaps more than still because of the vibrations of terror that swarmed and froze and swarmed again; giving fear a point of reference and precipitating a lurch for freedom and then taking all reference away, no point left to flee from, and just when the elctric pulse subsides , suddenly, again, the knowledge that it is here, now, sparks neurons thoughout her body and she lurched into nothingness, and froze. Electricity building , again, irrepressibly. She tried to exhale, a little, and stopped, listening. Again she let alittle air creep quickly out of her lungs. That sound was very strange. She stopped again and searched her memory for it but found nothing. She let a stream out now ,and then , almost involuntarily, open herself up from the inside with one of the most beautiful howls ever heard and , in this case, seen, from such a uique perspective that it could only be blamed on greatspiritnamelessone. The dog followed its own howl up and out and across an evening sky so perfect that its motion and dissappearence completed everything. Spreading herself out as thin as thin can be, between the molecules of air and whatever else was in there. She didn't have to try at all and she became that color of deep deep blue that makes white sand seem electric. She covered and infused into everything.

She saw it through a hole in her head. The accident had been specific in its harmful residue and while it had removed alot of her cultural inhibitions it had unharnessed her anger at the general stupidness of the humans. Need I say here I am speaking of the thinking of a canis lupis brain? Need I point out that intellegence is inherent in all life. And that the anger producing outlook strangling itself with her brand new and famous hands now robbed her of the chance to assemble a civilized and gentle response to the general choas, terrible with such pain, that surrounded her to the point of seeping in and making her joints ache. Psychoarthritic skeltal hammering of muscles turned to cement by years of deformity. Yes, an idea had clenched something somewhere and as the idea itself produced such an insouluable fragment in this never ending sea, there was no rest. No acceptance possible while the brain itself partook of the worlds sick sick karma; babies poisioned on supra clean rugs and old men given drugs to make them live beyond their time , and know it, know it too well. The dog begged for forgiveness for the tendancies of her mind and set the stage, again, for the dream. Oh, just the dream escaping. Or the music of the happy ending . The thoughts she was making. The heart she was mending. She laid an endless desert before and around herself and begged her true heart to reveal itself. And in her desire to bring her heart into time she had forced herself out of time. She now had nothing to do and all time to spend. In her mind she jumped up and neatly turned herself into a thin curving color of golden brown and slipped out the opening. It was very lonely if she thought that way ,and she did, in order to stimulate something from herself that was untainted by the expectations of others. No more 'sit' 'laydown' 'stay' 'heel' or 'no'. No, she was in search of the space between the howl and the moon without time, outside of time. When the desire was all that there was. Because in order to howl she needed to be back in her head. But now she was considering more and as she watched herself ttrotting across the brain dead sand that couldn't remember anything, for long, she imagined a moon. And she imagined that the sands were the sea and that she was conquering the waves, one crest at a time. From above and behind she watched her television mind flounder, gasping, hungry for junk. She reached in and bent the vector that blazed from a closed loop made of sexual ice cream and shorted it into the dispersions caused by fanatic religious rock throwing. The resultant arc welded nonsense over the hole in sheets of upside down music and , as always , the moon smiled down without a sound, hands on totally rotund hips, shaking an imense head so slowly, disdainfully saying nothing and waiting fort the next attempt at communication to increase the example of futility, and, yes, reflected and magnified by the, and here her mind went into a major birth cramp, woman in the moon. The heart in the moon was femine beyound belief. The knowledge frightened her as she looked at the messages now threatening to overwhelm and actually engulf her. She flayed about and through the fantastic jumble of piled papers everywhere in search of a writing instrument. Any writing instrument. She consumed herself witht the desire to let everyone know that it was a woman who lived in the moon

It all began with a wish. Sitting as tall and straight as possible, just like, almost, the terrified parakeet in the other room, the dog watched the can that waited so perfectly on the kitchen counter. The buzzing of the clock was invisible because of time but the animal became claustrophobic with useless anticipation. The psychotic bird in the other room mumbling to itself in the most enchanting and wandering warbles and chirps, punctuated with short but powerful screeches that made you want to step back before you looked. The victim of love. The dog let herself groan slowly in sections to the floor and knew there was no explanation. She was a coyote, really, but much too concerned with the fact. She admired herself in her mind now and barked out of hand in the direction of the unfortunate captive around a corner. When the contraption had been brought into the house the barking had not ceased until the canine had been locked in the bathroom under a hail of curses, although all benign. The, shall I say, custodian ,of this place and the lives in it had left after repeated failed attempts to get the bird to sit on a finger. Stromed out in a fit of self loathing, as a matter of fact for what their lonliness had driven them to do to this little life; put it in a can and hang it in the window. The stupid thing had escaped and had had to be chased. Repeatedly. As the 'master' insited upon 'happiness' and when , instead, a shriek like anger appeasing itself. Stopped only for breath and to close the little beak upon the flesh of the offending finger. Its tail drooped and it was as thin as a pencil. Blinking like the blazes. Its heart ferocious, too, shaking the tiny chest much faster than its rapid breathing. The other animal, named , Zeeba Zilla, was streaching its legs as it lay on its side on the cool kitchen floor and was wandering in no particular direction as it thought about captivity and choices. To sleep or not to sleep? To eat or not to eat? Ah, that was no question. And as she dropped over the edge as her eyes closed she let the lack of gravity turn her to a tiny mind confined.

She sat down, as best she could, in the rolling swivel chair. She had to jump into the chair like the dog she was, the coyote, she reminds me now, that she has become. And so she had to line the chair up with the keyboard at the desk and try and vector with just enough force to reach but not crash into her objective. This Zilla Dog, all right, coyote, was putting in a world famous golf tournoment. It was a long putt but a perfect shot. Turning as it rolled to bend the perfect vector the wind challenged it right at the very edge of the cup, then left it hanging there, like it was stuck on used gum. The crowd moaned but Zilla Dog rejoiced in the perfection that surrounded her now. She watched her new and so beautiful chinese hands float over the key board as if they had eyes, or noses, testing, testing. But nothing there, the direction was wrong and that realization hit her like Bunyon's axe. Her mind was so full of garbage that it was as if it were empty. Nothing was available of itself, everything mixed and tangled itself with the most detailed detail and just hug there, halfway by halfway by halfway until the numbers became amazing and proceeded to destroy themselves by halves, smaller each time, forever. When she realised that in order to do this she needed to turn everything inside out she felt betrayed by her ownself. And right on the heels of that thought, tangled in its socks, she remembered that it was herself that had betrayed herself and only because that was the only way out of the grand lie, the famous story, heroic endings in repetition. Done by a mother coyote twitching in her dreams. Spectacular hands trying to comprehend. Dog eyes blind to color trying to fabricate the emotion in an invisible bleeding sky. She tried to depict the howl with spectacularly lonley and isolated phrases which carried pointlessness and scurvy like medals. She followed the rat of scurvey down into the bowls of the ship and shot it with the biggest shotgun allowed. She let the smoke bite her nose. Turning she realised where she was and knew that unless she could turn the seventh hole upside down she would never get out. Pulling out her cell phone she got someone to arrange putting lessons via keyboard. Now it was all about waiting and so she let herself collapse in the corner where the shards left over from the letters in 'scurvy' looked just as if someone had torn apart a huge purple rose. The " s " had been turned into two " c's " and the 'u' into two " L's ".The "Y" had been disolved into a "v" and a comma. The 'r' had survived intact except for some loss of color around the edges.

When everything was gone , finally, that could possibly ever be gone, when there was nothing else, it was as if nothing had changed. Zilla eyed the catastrophe in person and felt shame. Nothing had changed, things were easier now by far and yet here was a self-contained terrorized cacoaphony. Zilla felt the urge to approach with good will in her tail but those human eyes there against the steaming alley wall saw nothing that was there. They went way backnow. Dressed it all up to explain something that now seemed unimportant. The emptiness when even sadness and judgement are gone. Out of step with everything Zilla Dog watched a personality disolve. As if she were the discordant note in the majestic cord that only made the perfection of the others more evident. Yes, the perfect seventh plus a little. As the sun rushed down into the sea someone gave up the ghost and the universe wouldn't give it back. Zilla listened to the click of her nails on the black broken asphalt as she turned and trotted over to the garbage cans, sniffing. She needed to seem unconcerned, and she did, but inside that disfigured head concern spread out with nowhere to go now. Life became a chore. A chore to be distracted from. Zilla disappeared. There was a small clap of thunder. She had left a drop of druel by the cans. An ant struggled mightily drowning in the diluted acid from a coyote dog's stomach.

She did not want to get nasty about it. That was not her intention. She just felt that it was about time that people grew up. (She danced back out of reach in her best coyote yoodle)

Zilla knew she was wounded but pressed on, and hard. It was a head wound and so of no major signifigance, in this situation. For here it was a matter of something from the past. Which, therefore, had no actual prescence anywhere. It was not a matter of her head or a mechinism within because of the many many out of body experiences into tremendous and very very real memorys that now seemed to florish on very city streets. (As I walk quickly synchronizing with anything in my path , so that I am vertually invisible, I try to breathe correctly.) Zilla moved on slowly curving across the sand like the line a wave makes, and leaves, on the last grains of sand that it touches before , just before, it must be gone. (I let her lower the gear by hand for obvious reasons.) So i admitted it; I just could not or would not let it be nothing. And so I left without my hat and took to her trail. It was almost dark but I could still see enough to know that I was in a city without electricity. She was in a tasselled tourist jeep crameed with a family of five and a uniformed and armed driver. They were on their way from one tourist attraction to the next and as they turned a corner the driver swerved and stopped. There lay a turbaned and incredibly thin loin clothed man. He was sprawled next to and half onto a litter strewn curb, trickling water underneath his now lifeless face and strangely beautiful hands. They quickly moved on counting the tassels, pink and white, that now surrounded and loomed over the group. Zilla was moving now , really moving. It surprised me. I wish I had remembered my hat.

Of course she loved the sound of it when it was said. I mean there could be no other explaination. But more to the point, she was learning, and quickly , how to yodle in the middle of the most vfr clean vectored note from the most four-hundred and forty times a second exactly harmonised with the sound of the realm artificial vibration. Ok, put your own hyphens in, anywhere you want, it came from the triple octive fretted bass guitar. In her hands. That she twisted into perfection. Then, all the rest, everything included, so that there was nothing else except the instance of the sound that was made to end somewhere else and still was and still was, just then, she thought she knew where it should go, from here. And she bent it a little further thinking perhaps more room on that end ,so when the collapse occured, when the world rushed in, well, ok then, begin it again. But she knew the moment she tried that the whole was lost and with no point of reference, exactly, the bottom fell out. Everything was out of balance and someone in the back of her musical dog mind, someone who had never given anyone their name, yelled, and at the perfect pitch to shatter even imaginary glass,"Perfect !!" Zilla whined in agony because the perfect answer had been found by mistake. She felt the almost sexual need to howl and there was no moon descernable in this jungle bar. The tune wound itself out and Zeeba mechanically finished it off with a standard, all though, yes, twisted, ending. Handing the instrument off to her drummer as she passed, they instinctively reached out and grabbed it, she slipped around behind and down off the stage and away,out the back, perhaps. The poor drummer had been in mid-balanced gymnastic self-removal from the snare of the drums and now ,with this foriegn counter balance, motion had become impossible,the center of gravity no longer aligned and so it was only a matter of time, and , well, no one could hear him call out, no one noticed. He was laughing ,actually, as he fell, thinking good thoughts about a really rude universe. As he crashed through and colapsed his meager collection of bells and cymbals he held the instrument up on an outstreached arm in an attempt to keep it clear of the comming choas. Zilla didn't even look back at the noise. She assumed the patrons at the bar were disassembling the stage and all the equipment on it and the other two members of her band. Because of her mistake and then the following surrounding intentions gone bad. Hell, she thought as she discarded her hands and white woman status , even though her blood was as Japanese as could be, she should be Chinese! And thr9ough the portal she leaped. Shedding culture after culture until the only motivation was to find a total desert for the perfect all inclusive sound. She was lopeing like a thirty mile a day horse. She hunted out the sound of the sand as she found and put down a rythm she could breath with right next to her heart as she moved on out there.

When they finally found the animal it was fully, fully, expired. Flattened, smashed, and dried. On the magnificent granite tit of a runner up in the 'lonliest mountain in the world' contest. Three billion years running. The stupid dog had made another dirty mark on the face of the world here where lonliness was a cash crop. You cold hold your breath for a whole day and it wouldn't mean a thing. Somewhere, Zilla, the godzilla dog from coyote country, tried to sniff out her surroundings but realised she didn't need to. She gathered her thoughts and seeing she was surrounded now by the middle of a typing lesson from the tower of babel during the last moments of a coherent humankind, hearing without ears the sounds of her lives as if they had been put in the mixer and sprayed on virgin rock, she noticed a slight slight movement but could tell no one. She struggled to remember the sacred verses. Something that wanted to be a radio transceiver began to speak like cofused water and abrupty stopped. Then returned but was still garbled.

THE SIENCEFICTION PERPUTALIZED TYPING LESSON;

The miricle was that anything coherent escaped at all. It seemed as if this dog turned author were trapped in her own designs by confusing the principles of personality with principles. She typed wildly with her beautiful asian hands. She became amazed again and had to stop. She let her brain approach the truth just close enough to singe itself dry and forced her head into the nearest dream and dove through her fingers. She had to localise and extend the thread if the lesson were to proceed at all and so she took down a cat-in-the-hat unicycle from over her shoulder like a sword and hurling it infront as she began to race around the desk, on all fours. She burst out through a swinging door, grabbed the bouncing and banging cycle, and jumped, with entirely no idea about balance. Ah, but luckily, there were no personalities present and the letters disolved into random sounds adjusted by the heart of a bird. Sitting freezing in fear the isolated bird exhibited all the symtoms of extream psychosis. His tail feathers were shaking and he blinked slowly gripping the perch like the neck of a deadly attacking snake and rocking back and forth. The tiny chest beating faster than you could count. And suddenly in that pschitzoid way , out of nowhere, a bright series of chirps, quick and then a return to the vibrating silence. It had been three days. Jets were flying across the window unoticed. Some combination of lettters tried to spin itself together right off the key board but was contained at the last moment with a, right, again, small song fom an insane bird called 'inverse hyku'. No capitals. It was a coyote tune done in a goldfish slow slow beat. It was all experimantal anyways. I mean, what chance did a dog, a coyote wanna-be,a hound, become a planet citizen. Thew fingerers telegraphed the information tooo late to catch up byt he time they reached the point when the actual typing had comenced. What had gone on concerning a type written bird dog was , thankfully inadmissable. Totally not to the pont. And thankfully, suddenly, like winning a prize, the magic revealed itself and showered everyone with such pretty guilt and nice attitudes about eachother that the words poled up upon each other and then some letters felt that they ujust had to escpae the whole drawnout procedure. Oh sure , he would go back and fix trhe more obvious errors. That he happemed to see. But he felt that if he didn't look at what he wrote he could be more creative; put of the critcism with a simpe tearse phrase. This is a TYPING LESSON AO KEEP YOUR MIND TO THE LESSON AT HAND AND... WELLL, AS YOU SEEE, IT WAS NOT SHORT AT ALl si he made it big. The worst thing he could possibly do.

Ned, Thanks for the info to get to your blog. I have never been to blog land before so I don't know what is there. Your writing is expansive. I did not have time to read and re-read it due to time restrictions, but I want to read it when I am not tired and bloggy. Interesting story, Zilla and Zeeba. I would suggest you use the spell checker as you have some interesting spelling adaptations. More llater, now I know how to get there! Launch a Lyric, Ms M

It was just light. Just barely, but Zillas lizard brain, to mention itself, was photosensitive to the point were phospherecent algea were doomed as soon as they set foot on land, and, subsequntly she awoke into the perfect dream, so called because it was impossible to tell, for sure. She slowy raised a lid trying to remmeber yesterday, not even sure if it was, and surrounded as usual by an unusual number of moving criticisms. These oily bugs tried to tip toe and delighted in being inescaple of notice. Because of their smell. It approached a burnt garlic metaphore but was repelled, internally and with dispatch. It tried to conjure up the antithisis but was too attached to the uncertainty of their own identity to even want to clear it up. And reveling in nothingness, trying to smell like jet exhaust, avoiding the knowledge that it was actually so much less, so far, enjoying it because there was the opportunity, starting to build into a symbolic scream turned yodel she became blue, a royal blue, a royal blue flush talking to itself in a pleasing voice. Light had refilled everything and deamland descended into actual bone and tissue trying to stimulate itself into the motion that it needed for its own survial. She placed an image of smoking bugs too slow and too late to escape a wandering one-hundred and ten percent throttle-up by a born again daily alcoholic with no convienient place to start a metaphorical fire who rips the guts out of some idle conversation and sets it loose. Just dump it out and savor the wreckage the awakened lizards caused chasing lighted litchen through her beautiful coyote mind. She tricked herself now up on to all fours and was immediatelyt struck with a force five inverse hyku. It came at her laterally, spinning , spiraling out of the blindspot. It pronounced itself in a series of half words that would almost pull you down into thinking that you might anticipate a solid object in this outer space but before anything could materize a dipthong disintegrated into a ripe combination for another sound completely, and that, just never came. The ribs of langauge were exposed now and the beast of culture staggeered. Clawing at itself now with fingers drenched in jet fuel. Conflageration iminent the lonely dog submersed itself in the pain of movement and made itself a hero for moving at all. Surprized and instictively dodging eachother these two looked as if they were danceing some mountain ritual dance, after it, the dance, had spent a thousand years in the valley. The bottom. Next to the water. And neither of them would ever admit it. How could they? They couldn't fly.

It happened as she tried to comprehend the injustice she had surrounded herself with. She was holding the captive in a bag in her hand. A small paraquet breathing like blazes at the bottom. Bound for a treamendously ting cage, considering the amount of sky now neglected forever. She tried to whistle. I n demented desperation she tried to whistle with her hands; they struck eachother at exactly the places and with the exact almount of force neccessatry to dislocate both thumbs. Her howls never crossed the line into the whistle zone. They stayed in the realm of the howls. She tried to raise it several octaves squared all of a sudden sudden and only coughed to the point of choking. The train stopped and she got off. The bird gave a brief but very compicated melody and Zilllllla Dog dreamed as hard as she could to make something right. The street turned into desert. And Zeeba Zilla wondered what the song was about, and wondered why there was no descernable course, again. It went on and on.

She wondered why there had never been a name for this and looked over her shoulder at the darkness following her. Then she remembered and closed her eyes. A bright piece of the sun was stuck between the surfaces of the glass surrounding her head and she felt it moving across her ear. The darkness was in her brain and was they result of too many negative 'Gs'. And probably the result of too many.......but that is another story.

Two things happened simultaneously and in such a way that put both occurences outside of normal time. One was the total surrendering of a coyote soul into the cosmic hands of the great spirit(who is sooooooo beyond capitals), the nameless one(soooooooo beyond names) and the other was a dream. Cyrus McKensie 'the third' immersed himself in the pitiful poison of desire for the moon as he awoke to his, his, sneaky sun slanting straight through a tiny moving hole in the leaves of a willow tree. He delicately forced himself back to sleep, not pushing too hard, wandering down the last memories and turning over, gently, hoping to find a comfortable enough postion, and when he saw her hands, it was enough. They absorbed him. They moved over eachother and he felt clean and cool. And into the perfect hands became a sound. Yes, 'became'. And in the dream, in the actual floating nuetral potentials, the lizard bit the dog. The smallest spark possible blinked for the smallest amount of time and someone came home. This did not seem to be enough and yet if you followed the animal one quickly becomes absorbed in the monotoney of all motion from the perspective where both beginning and end were visible at the same time. It suddenly became clear that it was the feeling that dominated the picture. Leaning everything a little off center and, you guessed it, a flat spin chasing its tail, round and round. So, then there was special silence in the expanded time. The dog, the coyote dog had hands. The boy-man striving for sleep wished he could make them move. Everything spontaneously inverse hykued. She tried to flee. The persistance of the sun saved two universes by pierceing Cy's dream. She called herself Zilla Dog and tried a trick. And it began like this......

Oh, Zeeba dog, fearless cunning surrounding everything you do. Your cleverness is used stupidly and you will end your days begging for mercy from your conscience for your wasted life. Perhaps. Perhaps not. With all her heart and soul Zeebs howled at the moon.

Zeebs(her new name was her 'friends' fault) knew she was defenseless in front of people. And more so before creatures with no conscience, like these. She had intended to isolate herself but now, and here she chuckled at and to herself with a bitterness she had to remind herself not to feel, but now, she watched the barbarian and dog floating together just beneath the edge of the sandy expanse displaying itself from here on, from here on. They were from somewhere else, another time and place, when she had first found her hands and had been trying to tell herself stories where someone actually won. These charecatures, charecters, something, someone, floating with the still still shadows from deep in the willow trees hanging all over themselves in a sticky silence against the white buzzing of a burning tiny eternity . The trees seemed to be trying a parade of sorts there and the watery shade underneath let the immutable logic of the sun, yes, turn into something else without changing a thing, not an iota. Miles glistened too fast to see and too hot to touch and complete stillness was the only answer. And Zeeba dog had chosen the eastern side of this sand valley at the edge of the Monster Mountains, too huge to describe, yes, of course, and climbed up the last dune before the forest took over, so that she cold look down, observe from above. She dared not even breath as she heard a breaking twig behind her as she watched the halfnaked pig of a man crouching and through the comparative blackness beneath the trees. The man was taking the round-about way and moving away from her but obviously had others with him besides the animal that almost heeled him now. Zeebs was thinking as hard as she could and of course that screwed everything up. She pulled out her cellphone and called her editor. Below and behind her stories were begining to circle and close in.

The giant clanged out into the desert. Drapped with weapons galore. Shirtless and wrapped at the waist with , of course, the skin of a lioness he had killed with his teeth. While stealing her cubs. One of them was at his side and one ranged ahead. The last of this stolen trio was learch-lurking behind and across and across again. Yes, learching, trying to follow its own new shadow, and wanting to look like a dog.Lurking like the un-noticed mountain in the back yard. The pile of old newspapes trying top return to what they were. The Lion just had to become a dog for no other reason than that he instinctually hungered for culture and society. It seemed plain to him. He saw himself demanding attention in complete silence just moving by. Perhps an afgahn brindle. Trotting up to the base of an elm tree along poplar street....a bright bang of hollow metal veered him off up stream, oh, why not, squinting into the brand new sun. I put myself there briefly just after he had passed and looked at the track in the moist soft sand. Motion at the bottom of the print zoomed me in just like an embarressed quantum and suddenly I was faced with the life and death struggle of a broken grasshopper. Was pain the right of all life? I looked closer and the bug struggled harder. I knew I should go but I too was torn. The banging, louder now, up ahead, finaly turned me away. Getting up above, a little, and looking at the distant mountains from behind him I noticed that the giant had dropped his compass. He was looking for his watch and in a search turned desperate by frustration he was clancking like a machine, desperate machine.

traveling light she described in the lengthiest longfellowian jungle prose she could find the shifting light and distances across the now angry desert. She was traveling so light that she had forgotten her feet and she coldn't tell if she were on course or not. She was travelling so light that she began to float away. Perfectly.

She needed to drain her mind. But it was trapped in the myth of instinctual reflex. She felt her muscles go into that place where they would do anything, regardless of the cost, where even sure failure would not decrease the attempt. She turned the lights down so as not to worry her eyes and tried to pull up that mantra she had used that time when she'd had to leap from a flying building. That was something, then, but now.......and she reached in and tried to find the plug to pull. She was suddenly metaphorically challenged, she split and split again , doubling each time until she began to get cold and she had to almost clench her mind. She let the light go completely and thought about how the curtains on that small window had begun to blow in as everything started to slid twords the opening through which now began to appear city streets twelve floors below full of traffic unawares and when she had noticed that she was slidding across the floor twords the window and that the curtains were blowing in twords her some thing broke in a long chain she was running through her mind. Now , here, I will add that I believe it was simply because she was a bitch dog coyote in extremis that she survived. If she hadn't panicked and gone beyond control she probably would be part of the incredible stone and life milkshake. The one now directly above her. She was in the basement basement of the department store next door to where she had begun this sudden and brief journey. It had happened like this; as Zilla Dog slid twords the window the logic involved quickly negated itself and let the simple dc current fire every nuron within her whole universe and concentrate that into her rear legs and literally fire her through the now far from verticle window. She found herself starring down at the sidewalk and right in the middle of the exact spot she was vectored to was an open loading well leading to the storge rooms in the huge and grand basement. And inside that well, leading from a small opening (about the size of a speeding dog) in the floor of the now raised loading platform that feed immediatly onto a polished descending rampway that gently curved out to level with the floor, down there, inside, seated at a table, a gentle man named Heirckimer Jones O'riely unkowingly found himself at the center of Zilla's target. He was lifting a full cup of hot green tea carefully to his lips, everything in perfect balance, measured exquisitely and turned into a breathe about to level itself out over the surface of this steaming green sea .........

Having leaked almost completely to a standstill, Zeebs managed somehow to catch the very and last bus out of town. She went to the very back and squirmed under the next to the last seats, (struggling around like a living drum and drummer's genetic melody),so that she could see under the seats to the very front of the bus; watcing legs come on board. She sniffed and looked around the corners of her eyes for any wet cardboard. People were begining to enter again, the first few immediatley lost in the huge quiet. Three slow pokes got on and she could tell they were old because of the way they took their time. And they were speaking in that tone of voice a sleep talker uses to talk themselves back to sleep and into a very good dream. She didn't know that it was Chinese but she liked how it sounded. They found their seats near the front and then the conductor boarded and began to flip switches near the wheel while looking over his shoulder out the door. Zilla heard electric whirrings as motors lowered a ramp for a wheel chair. And on came a drunken one-legged vetran. After he was strapped in and down he rudley interjected himself into the ladies conversation speaking loudly in what could very well have been some sort of Chinese, but wasn't. He stopped and looked at them and they, you could tell, were now way out in outerspace beyound the reach of civilization. The million year old man leaned twords them and laughed. In the back the dog began to struggle foward under the seats to get closer to the storm brewing. The transport began to move.

The moonlight displaced her reason as she stared too hard directly at venus lying low and twinkling inspite of its nearness and immense size. She tried to doze and escape the lead bordom that encased everything but the night was too noisy with the meaningless utturences of nature at large. This was her front pourch and by default that made this her night as well, and all the flying bugs within it and near enough to be detected became enemy and then prey, and, she held her dogs head sideways and watched an etreamly dizzy bug whirling in a tiny screaming spiral of confusion, and snapped it up. The abrupt end to the pierceing sound was a spice the hound tasted. Until the next was noticed. The next of more than all the half seconds to ever be involved here. As if it were the only intruder because all the attention was focused on this interuption of the light from venus by winged arachnids. Soon to be eaten from the sky. And speaking compulsively in shorter and shorted spiral arcs, forcing everything into a further demension, a perspective that included song but not words; impulse confined by eternity.

She was balanced, she imagined, on a wire above niagra falls. She put the mist rolling over and under again and she put a small group of chance passer-bys who happened to notice crowded up against the rail on lookout point. She took her time and made each one especially unaware of what they were about to see. Zilla contracted and put more detail into the , now, swinging wire. She thought of the wind and immediatley regretted it. Yes, it began to howl. And a whole set of unexpected factors moved right in when her attention was momentarily diverted by the small high cry of a child being hoisted up to see better. Zilla tried to crouch down on the moving wire, noticeing, again, her hands. She watched the viens bulge as she grasped the knarley wire and felt the frayed steel injecting its rust into the endodermal. She knew she was falling and tried to appreciate the art of it all. But suddenly it was too personal.

Through the jungled barrier of at least one-hundred and twenty-five nauticle miles of sleep the poet dog found the trail. Like a strange pearl diver caught in thick liquid the singing dog paddled furiosly and slowly, slowly, circled down. There were some natural abysal almost bottomless potentials drifting like caged lightnings that were now moving more reasonably as she passed, but only as she passed. As soon as she was gone they, all, stopped all foward motion and began to spin in place. Whole motives that the day before had seemed inpenetrable now began to fragment and spin off in shrapnel like pieces. The thick water vibrated like a drum, and if you looked closely, this dog had hands.

She struggled up from sleep thinking that the opinions of others were not threats, not actualities to even be noticed. But as she wavered between standing and sitting, struggling for real now , a million things trying to cling to her shoulders, she knew she'd poisoned herself by and with the one response to her critics she had (finally) allowed herself. It had only been a memo, actually. A late afternoon afterthought born of day dreaming through a window on the hundreth floor. She had looked out across incomprehensible detail and something from deep within herself seemed to come from some cosmic generator buried in the streets below. It moved her precious hands to try to conceal her rotten heart from a closer inspection. But, unbeknownst to her, this precipitated a full frontal to her own perceptions of the motives that had caused the disease in the dorsal thoughts surrounding the organ, deep within the real motivations present here. It was like opening the silver drawer and finding it full of straved rats. Zilla knew now that she had to run. If only in her mind, but run, forever, until she bumped into something that would stop her. Such a thing had not been created yet. But deep down , beyound even the lizard mind, past instinct, right into the heart of the monkey mind, spontaneous combustion occurred. And instinctual dance obscurred the tiny motives scurrying twords a drawer.

Now that she had hands and nothing to do she spent the next three months attempting to create word combinations that would become perpetual mental chiropractic devices and not disturb the neighboors. The key of 'B' flat charged the music with mathamatics to the point of infinitely diminishing returns. Perfect for dozing off in the middle of anything. And this, all this, beneath a screaming orange sun melting all over the edge of the world, rimmed with seas and oceans larger than time. Oh, yes , and she was addicted to the phantom, romance; had turned the most basic convesations into complex rituals. The simple word had degenerated into meanings and accumulated so many adjectival accroutrements that what had originally been brief and meloudious, spontaniously begging repetion, became something never to be replicated exactly and since the hunger for the initial sounds only increased as the attempt at repetition became more grossly distorted until it sounded like a howling dog pinned against the sheild of the sun stained with description after descrition, well, the damned noisy beast would not be ignored, leaning now into some basic chiropractic pose for the canine spine. And as the animal would sing the natural charge down and through its back, down a blue wire that never was before, as the sound itself changed the sun and installed a rythm , somewhere, under the water(s) no doubt, the magnetic first, covering all, and just like matter, it was actually the spaces inbetween. never anywhere, never. But something in her beautiful precious mind spilt down into the neutral magnitizm of the knowledge she bore concerning the simple things. She had forced all these into her left rear foot and throtled down as she turned the ship over. The horses stopped chewing and their ears came up. Something in midair was zeroing in. The machine leaned to the left and he had to sit back and move his left shoulder to right it. A yellow " dreracho" screamed under the dress she would someday own and now he had to flounder on purpose. His purpose to make her howl befor the sun at the moon. How ridiculously childish. Sounds like a wet newspaper behind a broken barn. At night.

Zilla Dog floated down through a guazy maze of symbolic noise and relaxed. She was reveling , or trying to, in the first drag from her very first cigarette. She nodded, thinking to herself about incredible nothingness, a hollow space buzzing its disability, momentarialy terminal. She was prepareing herself for the final assult on logic. She marveled briefly through total disintrest at her amazing hands. She watched the smoke cascade out and thought of jet engines. The morning sun was blazing invisibly through and onto her hands and she knew that her art would never do them justice.

Poor Zilla. She was terminally lonely. Yes, again. Actually to the point of being preturbed at its impotence. Impotence borne of twenty-seven and one half years spent in pursuit of meaning in isolation. The only thing left to dicide was the expression put on the face. Have you seen a moonlight dog smile? A lopsided grin trotting on noises like waters.

Imagine, if you will, beauty in a dog. Imagine true and real intellegence , devoured by feeling, yes, but still and even though , an awareness of a very high degree. Now, since you're here, or, I would suppose, 'if' your still here(and the abyss of infinite circular thought looms inversely, so inversely, everwhere around. For a moment. Just a moment.) I need tell you now that the universe had become imperfect from repeated attempts to penetrate its secrets. Vital parts were whithering under the supra-inspection. And the dissolution of the goal of this chase spurred it on with a growing desperation. The carrot attached and before the mule. And upon closer inspection things changed, as they always do. As they must. The hunger distorts the very heart of time itself. Finally to a point where there is no crossing. So, this healthy animal put itself in motion, lopping down off the gentle flank of an ancient hill through the perenial grasses. No, she did did not even deign the audience a glance. Millions perhaps were crouched in the tall grasses peering as if they had lasers in their eyes. Oh, their converging beams created pockets of noisy gleaming nonsense which converged and spontaniously exploded but the animal used gravity to clear its mind and in the vacancy , into the vacncy, this magic dog let some small and gentle thoughts leak in from nowhere and pacify downward and through until a song emerged. And set everything right again. Perhaps.

Once again,deep inside her mind and feeling trapped in that special way time will do, Zilla Dog felt she needed attention. And so she generated a dream. It seemed like that perhaps if it had a color it would have been a sound and if it had moved she would definately have heard it. She drapped inverse shadows over her sleeping lizard brain and ran down a moonlite slope twords a gleaming sea. And drawing a bag of mechanical things out from behind some glowing rocks as she streaked by, holding them with a fang, now magic in this dream that shone from a canine tooth, well, of course, she had to laugh. There just was no other choice at this point. It saved her life. But your right;it was only a dream.

Inside this canine brain are some connections so close that they are termed instincts. These lay like traps sprung on themselves to save their lives which could quickly be reset and even faster fired. How many? This depends on where you draw the line between thought and spontanious phenomenon. And, I might here of necessity add, there are many who denie the distinction. They sweep a hand across the face of this weary world and call it merely a dream, nothing at all really. But, they too suffer. Or do they? Am I jealous already? I haven't even gotten to the 'good' part yet! Figure that out! Please! And I try to throw the switches to panic myself into a brainless condition; quiet, a nano instant just after dinner or perhaps just before sleep. That sounds better. Very important how it sounds. And now , inside this dog-brained skull, this reference point for the intangible, a whole line of circuits closed for no decernable reason. Yes, it was a sound beyound human ears. Whence did it come? From a planned error that turned true of its own accord. The sky had to be perfect, of course, so,
a bluish charge inserted itself into the air and the odd numbered releys in areas of the and this coyote mind, determined by the ordered pairs of a very narrow parabola that desperately tried to change its shape, its 'sound' , by inverseing itself repeatedly which, of course, again, created the third. The magnificent third. Now with three you can even count the nothing before zero. Its just the magic inherent in the universe to begin with. Its all just a spiritual machine that waits forever for our thoughts. The ones we don't recognise because we had clothed them too generously to begin with and this , we knew, could never pass through to the timeless state of affairs that always is anyways. Time won't end because it isn't anyways. Doesn't exist. But I still feel. And call it a tragedy. The sound was a jet beyound sound. This entity rolled such a long way and Zeeba, the canid(THE wanabe coyote)latrans of an abtstract genetic heritage and inverse purpose creation, well, she jumped. Leaping in that beautiful way that only some four legged animals can. And in this situation this golden dog looked like a gazelle for moment. A gizelle with five legs. The fifth(the liar) had what seemed to be a ring around the ankle. A white ring that stood out more becaue of the invisible(at this range) two black ones surrounding it. Inside the leap itself and inside the machinery of her brain, somewhere deep down in back, right beside the lizard, enough of the breakers closed, popping the main one out, that she became empty and nuetral. This closed out the vehicle that it was in; the foward brain, the controls, if you will. Immediatly fifty metters down and four thousand kilometers out on a vector three degrees east of south at minus three point four oh oh two negative degrees from the horizon determined by some haphazard constant....but this direction leads to the center, back again, to the beginning, where this now damaged person rose from a chair, their chair, as if the keyboard infront of them had just exploded. Disintegrating with the sound of a jet. The body of this individual straightend and leaned back beyound the point where it could find stasis of motion and a flailing tangle of chair and editor thrashed themselves slowly across the cigarette burned carpet.

She had to put herself in a very exact spot. It had to be precise on several levels. Including decorous in the presently crowded social predicament she found herself in. It needed the view points of both the practical and the spontaneous. The first was achieved via blinking, strategically, time and position wise, and, the second as the result of numerous off-the-cuff decisions as to the acellerations in direction and pace twords an ill and not clearly defined location. That had to be exact. Exact to the fourth, literally. She was wondering why there were more than one co-ordinate for the "exact" location of something. When that something was an intangible at its root.
She was pulling half a negative 'Gee' now slidding under the sofa from a sneaking dash laid on the hard wood and balanced to zero with her four intellegent springs against the wainscoat paneling that would, later , irk someone important enough, and thinking this that someone would cash in a wim and change their mind about the whole of the3 house; simply because of a mis-placed sofa. What had happed right above where the dog now lay was that a wife had passed away. The sofa, loveseat, probably a closer description though neither, had originally been in the bed room but had been used to carry her down stairs when she was too ill to move and had not known that would happen when she sat down, had not known anything about what was happening to her, now. So, 'now'. It had never been moved and was not really even seen now. it was in the hall off the front foyer and was used for whatever poeple had in their hands when they came in; everything from coats to groceries to books, even a bird had lived briefly there.
Back in the crowd the mood was striving for fresh air and chocking on needless conversation. This dog, this wanna-be-coyote, could actually see this as a confict in color that wandered about the room, splitting-up then spreading out and gathering, in small shallow pools around the different parts of the numerous bodies here. Someone shrieked with laughter and all the pale gren in the room immediatly surged there, where it nestled on the throat and hung over one shoulder of a dully, yes , dully, kaliediscopic image of a female figure. The hound blinked and seemed to see that the figure was teeming with completely polarised charges. Some of most stable and solid of these roamed looping around the inside of her head. Oh, yes, if you guessed their heads were one for an instant. I

Dreams surrounded her now and she tried to move but could not.

she placed a small germ kernal level with all four directions and breathed on it.

This time she grew her hands overnight in her sleep. She awoke to fingers, fingers!, scratching her nose. She' lept up and thinking that they were , well, at leasst antagonistic in the way they dissappeared when she jumped up and looked around. She was already almost through going through the many possibilities present here to arrive at the conclusion that she must have been dreaming, still asleep, when she began to feel something strange. She unfocused her eyes and began to search and immediatly noticed pain in her front feet. For some reason she glanced at her back feet first and then looking to the front ones by turning her eye, her head still backwards, looking under her belly, she knew she'd been cornered. And inspite of the revelation of the uselessness of attempted escape from these hands as their attachment proved she tried to leap backwards and away. Her head being in such a position as it was when she made her move the result was a tangle. The hands finally had to grab her rear legs until she calmed down. They relinquished control early in the afternoon and now, as evening dropped night's dress, Zeebs hand manged to scratch her head and pick her nose and come to the conclusion that hands were dangerous things, dangerous things indeed.

Being a linguist and detached enough from her personalities that she could easily, she felt, defend herself in this room full of strangers, Zilla(that was her name now because that was the way she felt.(( She knew she had a million and a half names , but had only found and found the need for three. And, so, people would call her lazy. But the truth was a complicated mongrel motivation manifest in what might be best termed a light cynicism.))), Zilla Dog, the daughter of Godzilla himself, slipped in behind a conversation that had occluded a far corner of this huge and, of course , very tall, room. The majestic multi-pained windowed folding doors had been opened and the lake gleamed a crescent moon, almost holding jupiter and mars in its scythe, laying it wrinkled and broken into moving pieces across the blacker than black waters. Zilla had found a space between the open doors and the wall. She backed in and squirmed because she couldn't turn all the way around as she lowered herself down. She could feel a breeze through the spaces by the hinges behind her that smelled like mold. She listened. And was attacked. "Are you implying, sir, that the human race is , well, as you put it, ' less than human' ?" Zeebs squinted her left eye, her head across her paws and tried to yawn. But the tone of voice held her. She didn't understand a thing but listened as hard as she could. She cringed the left side of her face and then relaxed it slowly, trying to pick-out and bring the speaker into focus. A tall almost skinny, almost very tall, woman in a black and green confusion held a martini glass as if she were daring it to drop out of her completely uninterested hand. She leaned away from it and it seemed to want to follow, almost as if it were trying to push her back. Probably revenge for intent. Maybe even bad alcohol. She rocked back and the glass in hand tried to follow but this time her very balance was involved. The glass teetered as the woman had to thrust that arm out to counter balance her backward leaning that had been accumulating and had succeeded in sneaking up on her. When it had crossed its own line and she wasn't paying any attention, watching the glass like she was, it pounced. As her arm streaked out the top or her glass could not keep up with the bottom of the slender stem held between her thumb and a simarily beautiful fore finger, and of course the rest of the digits on that hand were reaching as hard as they could away from eachother, a finger fan, with perfect red nails, another hand swooped in. A dangling watch on its loose wrist band touched the wet rim of glass perfectly and created a vibration that sterilized the conversation, turned off the thermostat and turned on the television. The glass was saved but the drink was not. As the gentleman with the watch delicately rested both hands upon her moving center of gravity and now danced the unconciously wide awake child from the falling debris, Zilla's eye tasted gin. A tired news man droned at high volume. Fire in Kansass city. And an uncontrolable yelp. She peered out from behind the folded doors blinking like a bat and locked eyes with a black and green dress. Locked burning blearly unfocused eyes upon a swirling green dragon in the black lake. She tried to turn and bolt and the descending silence when someone punched the television out,was punctuated with the distinctive drum of bone on wood. And, of all things, it was her ' funny' bone! The renegade electricity from it numbed that whole side of her body. As her own trap fell in on her she heard the woman in the dragon dress begin to shriek. The sound, she knew, they both knew, would build upon itself; the actual sound being produced , when heard, produced an added impetus and so on until, thankfullly, she ran out of air and the man with the hanging watch plugged the void with a drink handed off as he moved twords the comotion in the corner. But the dog was gone. Devoured in a spontaneous eruption of her latent talents to roam freely through all space and time. And be where and when she needed to be. Her elbow still dully aching Zilla found herself back in the deep desert plannng revenge upon her emotions. As the sun nudged its way into the place she slept. Searching for the dream about flying upside down. Curled under a ledge at the bottom of a dry wash she tried to gather clouds. Only bugs listened then went on their way under a perfectly cloudless sky.

He had deserted her. Left her entirley alone on the most magnificent and lonely , yes, desert, in the whole of the universe. Not even a direction now as the sun came up and made everything so completely different than anything she'd imagines during the previous eternal night. And it turned again. She moved her head to try and follow it and her body had to follow her head as it turned, and turned again. Spiraling out. As everything does. She squinted into the sun over her left shoulder as it passed with her turning and stopped. She felt the light warming through the surface. She drew the monent out and bent it around, as far as she could, and watched it curving, perfectly, as all straight lines do when placed in the ultimate framework of infinity in all directions. Watching it become faster and heavier the more she tried to contain it. Because she tried to direct it. Because, I would ultimately guess, she had noticed it at all. Well, as you must have guessed by now, there was a pretty potent nuetral potntial hanging out here. And so, resignedly, she carefully opened her heart and let something there turn her somewhere and she started out. Without even a purpose in mind. If she'd been listening she would have heard a small bird (with flying glasses) calling as if the song were the sum. The total. Suddenly strange signs invaded the coyote's mind. She was thinking about a barbed wire fence hung with bannanas. Huge bunces saging thre wire. Posts were leaning, but it could have been just time. No telling how long the fence had been there. They were not ripe eough to interest her and she knew better than to get within reach of the wire. Singing like snakes in a brittle wind as they tried to runaway in opposite directions forcing the twisted barbed strands to nurture a clearly vibratory solution to the problem potentials here. As this Zeeba coyote knew and understood now, running paralel, sniffing for ripe bananas, there was no point. But what was she to do? Wyoming on mars! Besides moving kept her warm when love wouldn't. She looked down the wandering line of posts, entirely not in line , and yet, and yet........

This morning she took the completed film down from its honorary place by the mail slot on the front door and openning the can (ok, by dropping it a few hundred times) she facinated herself with the little black snake that turned out to be longer than any she had ever seen. The noise, the clangs and rolling climaxed with a slam as the bitch animal slammed the film reel down, leaping upon it just as it started to fall over. It sounded like a pistol. The coyote dog stopped and looked into dry infiity listening like a sepearte sky, completely vacant. Not a peep from up stairs. She'd already tried to get at the bag of food by opening the below the counter cupboard but one of the waves of debris from the celebration last night, albiet solitary celebration(because when the rent was due, dogs were no longer real enough to consider in this monthly precipitated false crisis, until now, anyways....)probably two cases, and pizza, and ice cream, and chicken dinners, half eaten(the animal had tasted some of the suace and been conditioned to avoid at all costs)......just picture this; as if the bar dumpster had been emptied within the tiny kitchen and then the room was turned upside down and shaken. The problem was this; that this Zilla or Zeeba dog would not admit that she wasn't hungry, not only to anyone in the vicinity of this universe, but, most importantly, to herself. She barked at the film tangled into a black cloud that followed the reel when she would rear up and growl and drop upon it, ears like daggers, tail like a fat sleepy snake, perhaps the mother of.......but, never mind, oh, never mind. This had become Chuck's sleep mantra, ' never' dancing with 'mind'. Spaces appearing almost in the middle of the sylabils themselves and the accent was drifting. This was a last defence against lonely animals with nothing to do. Upstairs, almost dirctly above , Zilla dog haveing instinctively found the only place where the wood of the floor was tightly, tightly connected to the left bed leg nearest the door. In her meditations Zeebs rapidly defused the relative postion of the words describing the position of the legs of the bed in an intricate and beautiful inverse hyku. Gently, gently now the downstairs hallway floor began to hum in Chuck's ear. Like a splintered wheel racing down the ear canal. Charles tried to find that dark silent cocoon amongst the blankets but only succeded in locking himself up in his own personal twist-it trap; the harder you pull the tighter it gets. The morning was perfect again in this usually unusual way; everyone had trapped themselves. One before even waking up and the other looking for a way out of their own heart.

To begin it with a slow-motion smell? Burnt beans?To suffuse it first, perhaps, with violet lights which could be felt on the skin? Put some very perfect sounds in? Electric beans now, smoking, and trying to hide it with motion which only encouraged the almost fire trying to burst through the roiling opaque fumes. The beans began to glow. A red that should have been orange and when this was exposed, lets put it on the table cornered by half walls, because the smoke was suddenly gone, that the beans were completely burned into smoke and alll that remained was a fine and hollow ash like a fossil that would disintegrate upon a touch. The beans were entirely in the air. If anone but the dog had been there, they would have mentioned, at least to themselves, that it felt like thier lungs were being coated with something they would never get off. That that smell would now live forever in their (there's that phatom plural!!!) nose. The real one in their own minds. But now the restraints were off. Had been whittled away by adjectives that insisted they were very plural verbs. Arguing that if plurality were to appear , out of the blue, so to speak, no evident reason for it, then why not a stand alone part? Involved yet completely alone. Struggling to create the perfect field for a gentler civilization. Where the common enemy was religion in words; the self evident contradiction that has successfully(?) turned us all against ourselves(eachother) put down with gentle rest from fruitless wars. The Elohim themselves called to account for the violation of the prime directive. Some useful and inherently harmless(is there such a thing?) (given the human compass) technology to affect the neccessary repairs to mind and environment immediatly beamed down. Flags and religion illegal until the mess is cleaned up and humanity has a chance to avoid its own cancers and psychosii. Marriage nullified so that it could be real. Death taken out of the business areana along with scientific medicine. And some thing had to done about all the empty cages. And that damned dog. No, not to mention the beans. They were completely gone. Friole reflections clinging to an imaginary nose. Humidly filling the head with something too annoying to get used to. Now, this was the initial charge that started the whole thing. Had to get out of the kitchen, out of the house. Hungry rocks squealed behind their wall of desert.

So, like this; she lined up her desires ,in their cages, by color. And then she moved to mark each one with priority, starting, steadfastly, with full resolve to just count them down ,from left to right. But just as she moved to make the mark she thought , ' right to left ?', and time stopped. As she thought. And the cages dissolved in their own restraints, like drunken saints, perhaps on some kind of parade. She had to pick one and pick one fast so she let here faster-than-light compass direct her to the purple of the sky, now, as she pictured it, giving only a vauge edge to a magnificent desert alive. And she turned and began to run again. First; meditation on each step until the grains moved were evident enough for the equation to solve itself. Then dual. Tri. And finally the quad. Then, balance the two made one and the other one; make the motion fit the time and access to the whole sphere of our limited times so that the illusion is perfect for the matching of the un-matchable. Her steps were dealing powers of ten to the ninth to the giga sands; and only small steps. Her head was down now. She was on a trail. Her own history trail. From her creation at the genetic competition to the 'resurection' from the spontanious.... and the chance availability of.......if it happened at anyother time or any other space, suffice to say that what she need had been there as it is and always is for anything that still is aware. The confusion of non-cages, really trying to avoid catching what they had to catch, eventually,and now a vector through the night over sands unique twice, this night. Vector sight twice. Canine glowing eyes spliced exactly at infinity. Time burned itself up there from nothing to nothing through complete nothing , and all of it , without an inch of room for anything else. She could actually see the world moving at each step and suddenly, from the otherside of time, the clock sky, it was all lost , all of it. She didn't miss a beat. Had to swerve for a surprise sage over the top of a sharp ridge and she let her tonge slide out a lille as she parted her teeth and dried them out with rapid breathing over the tounge , the sweating tougne. As she came down the other side it dropped off at over forty-five degrees and she started a small avalnche. If ever there was an expression for the absoloute desire for brakes uncaged it was on this coyote dog's face. Eyes and eyebrows like hands reaching for the sky. Ears like kites. Mouth clamped and changing the expression into one of fear.

She had expected to feel more about it. She had considered her work to be of, well, obviously more value than it was actually worth, but still, at least important.Ok, only to her, but surely something personal . Something to be missed. But there was a strange relief begining to come from some where. And she nurtured it as if it were a small , tiny, so tiny, barely there, flame, at the very very start of a fire. She was afraid to breath leat she extinghish it and yet it would die without her breath. Contained in the unbreathing machine, they struggled together. In the darkess she chose to charge the surroundings with she dreww forth and then extingwished as the br8ightness of the flame increased for a moment on the "perpetual desert wind" that lived here. In this machine that extends everywhere, right now.The machine. The machines. Trying to follow the human compass; what can possibkly be said about the direction of things and the reason for it? The human compass that never moved or wavered as we wander in downward spirials around its supra-demention. Solid like the rock of hunger. But headed the wrong way. Exactly the wrong way. And , get this, with all, all, the wrong words in her mouth and all of the exact times. It was the wrong way, indeed. But the only way home. Yes the compass when seen from the other side. As she drew her beautiful but mangled coyote profile back from the now barely riseing finger-leangth flames she egotistically wondered about what top fill this immense vacancy with.

A Zeeba dog looked out through clean glass at flowers raging rainbows indiscriminantly. There was a lull in the furious wind that had made this wanabe coyote actually involuntarily move back from the glass when the wind had actually made it bulge in in a short long note first, then a stacatto then a shorter long one and a final weak punch. The canvass chiar on a sturdy wood frame just outside had lifted itself up during the onslaught as if it were falling, just that fast, and gentle in the midst of a small tornado, it touched down on the left rear corner first and spun , first this way then that , slowly like an old whether vane, then, abrubtly everthing stopped. The flowers were not being shaken by their necks together. The chair could be heard clearly behind the glass as it bent down and clumped to the deck floor. The dog blinked and looked up at the cleaar and blue sky surrounding overhead. A jet, tiny and so quick that it was gone on the second look creased the sky leaving nothing. For a moment. There was a stillness profound because it was born into a noisy storm. And then the sonic boom. It was as if the glass had disolved, from the top down, falling down and over itself and raining on the stone floor. Zeeba hadn't moved. At all. Not even thought about it. Entranced. Of course the sound wave itself knocked her off her feet. She bumped her head and went into a dream.

Zeeba was bleeding for real now. And the hot pavement she trotted on tourtured the wound in its special way, the shadows directly underneath. It was seventh street but she didn't know. And she was thinking like the locamotive she had become. She was listening to sounds she did not understand and turning them into very co-herhent forms of bizarre thinking. For example it was deep snow and the broken piece of twentieth century coca-cola bottle was a snake, with weird fangs, almost as if it had wanted to take a bite, instead of poison, instead of a null and void nervous system. At least in that location. On the rear and main pad of the brightly, whitely, banded foot and ankle. Which twisted now as it atttempted straight line after straight line after straight line and all the while the fourth beat of this, ok, yes, wilderness, and wild drummer unable to find the beat but nothing stopped and her limp made her look like she had an itch that needed scratching exactly when the left rear became, well, way out there. She thought of things buried in the snow and shook it off, again and again. Touching lightly as she could to minimise the time underneath and in contact, make it as small as possible in all directions. So, she left a track. The blood on the hot pavement almost steamed but crinkled instead. Zeebs was angry at herself now. It had to be her fault. She was, after all , the center of the universe. Was she not. Not a question. And, and it was time , once again ,that would make everything alright, again. Sure, it was like an ocean , as she troted across Beal street and turned up main. An amazing sea that howled at her and rose in huge brief waves shingled in flashing silvers brighter than the sun on the sea, brighter than stars, shinny as a howl in the suddenly church lake where a few standing logs floated by, softly beatings hearts. She forced herself from the romantic ,. She ended her search, for the ninth time, hobbling down in the shadow of a ware house now. There was no one to find. And suddenly she had a choice. She put it on hold, knowing she shouldn't, and continued. There was nothing else to do. Had to get out of this weird sea some how. She flipped her gyros and let them find their places, on their own. It would be a while until they stabilised. The dark snow burst into fire. Seals leapt out of everywhere around. The children's laughter a flock of bright birds flushed from a gloden wave. The bleeding had stopped and Zeebs smelled something on the wind. A fidigty breeze circled once and threw a few thousand molecular fields loosely around her, of course, determined, head. Ears back now and tail down she began to move. Getting a vector here, a vector there, down main twords macdonald's, maybe, no, kentucy fried, or chinese. Yes Chinese. Ancient circle of culture. Almost home now. She was friendless. Perfect, in a way. A dangerous way. Her foot felt better now because it was comletely numb, out of mind.

Friendless on purpose for the sake of her failing eyes Zilla Dog changed her name. In that beautiful isolation she felt as if she could see through anything and everything and a sound, almost a word, gathered itself and them dispersed totally, yes, entropically. What she heard, or rather, what she made herself hear amidst the static of this particular creation was "Zeeba." Of course, she immediatly called in her phantom editor and scolded them into bending the name a little, removing a sylable by changing a letter, a sound, and with that thought Zeebs plunged into the safest dream she had; a hungry alley waiting for garbage. Waiting for the cerimony to begin. The sacrament that would change garbage into life. And for genetically engineered life form(s) that were dictated to by special sequences of ameanoids, charged to perfection. To create a leaning in the nuetral field expanding before her now twisted eyes. Immediatly she was surrounded by grasses. Something in them had been changed radically. Something to do with sex; the ultimate polorization. There was a supra fine dust covering the surface of the tiny drops of dew everywhere, everywhere. And seen from where they were mixed as she passed through like the wind, well, yes, it was creation all over again. Zeebs breathed her new name in and out for several light years. Until she was used to it enough to use it.

As she came down the last bit of stairs from the upper lawns and was remembering , with a resigned amazment, the few people who had been able to give her hope when she could see none simply with their words. And usually it was just a few. Out of an hour of them thrown in the corner after their use, maybe a dozen. And that could be paired down to three, usually, usually. But inspite of the universe's immutable laws, even about when and how those laws could be broken, or, bettter said; when they would no longer suffice so that new ones became evident, became immutable during these extream and thankfully brief times of , well, nonsense, choas actually. Perhaps a madness. An inevitable madness.

Zilla's total reason to exist had been nulified. Again. She was almost used to it and would tell you so when she recovered, but now, she was embroiled in the raw act of creation for the sake of her own existence. There was nothing here but endless expanse. No matter which way she turned the horizon was the same. She studied it for distinguishing details and found them circular no matter whether she began with the a bush or a bird or the color of a moving shadow; it wound itself around and came back down to the sand that made the ground here. She had to hold herself back from the temptation to enter the catitonia living between the grains. It was that time when there was no day or night because everything entered that moment inbetween.When purple would persist itself again.Trying to turn electric by thinking about it and realizeing that there was no other motivation than a simple greed for life. She tried to strike sparks from logic with striaght lines through tremendous gravity feilds and got nothing but a horrid picture of what time wold do to her face. She knew there was another perspective here but her false pride had damaged her, yes, eyes, and so she entered the heavy meditations asociated with 'dog smiles' and here a huge blackhole emerged devoring all language. As the famous howl tried to raise the moon to where her heart wanted it to be it was as if she watched herself from behind. As if she didn't want to see her own face. She was wondering what the tale would be if she could indeed clothe the beast in colorful words. She went beyond the obvious now and began the wait. She surrounded herself with the sand that surrounded her and disappeared. This intentional imbalance set the ground moving ever so slightly, so slightly, but the huge mass involved, and the uni-charge environment of Zilla's now unfettered mind, combined and bent time just enough for its own illusion to cover itself and nullify all the effects affecting anyting over time, over time, all over time. The howl lasted forever and when it was over Zilla began again.Heading out into the morning twords the now light side of the horizon. The millions of drummers in the sand waited,listening.

Zilla needed friends though she knew they couldn't help. She invented a few but they fizzeled out once their own personalities exerted themselves over her net of confusion, cast to cover tendancies and appetites of all kinds. It was almost sun-up and Zilla stopped in the steaming hayfield; just cut and the new growth just through the litter of the old. She looked back at her dark tracks where her tread had smashed the thousands of tiny droplets that lay over everything together into a timeless sea water imitation; so many charges everywhere that it became nuetral beyound belief. She contemplated a sneeze but found it much too .......she listened, and listened again. Across the creek that ran across her path a mile ahead she thought she heard the grinding of gears. She tried to make the sneeze return but failed. Her mood started to swing. She'd probably have to use instruments before she reached the river and so she started setting up. She put neon blooms on an apple tree in a yard with no dog as she trotted by with closed eyes. She heard her bird sing and went foward armed with the mantra .'doesn't mean a thing'

Zilla's memory contained everything that ever was or had happened anywhere but she could not reach it when and where she wanted. Nor did she have any control over what appeared when she was , somehow, able to access it. The perfect curve she travelled now was across the most perfectly still ocean ever created up unitl this time. She had been blessed with this gift because of the singleton charge she had created by painting inverse hykus backwards and upside down all moonless night to keep her mind off the fact that she was walking on water. Immediatly that thought crossed her purple mind she knew she was sinking and she sudenly found herself a million years ago in southern africa. At a party. Suddenly she was six foot two and holding a beautiful glass. She watched bleary and curved people swaying under the weight of their own words through thick crystal. She wondered what she was drinking and tried to take a sip, but the glass slipped. And fell into a big bowl of salmon dip. Quickly she re-wound and tried to lay a new track down, but, the hostess, in her glorious purple gowns, came flying down from the balcony and threw her arms around a tall figure turning away. There was a scuffle, forcing a reshuffle, which spilled a tray of truffles. And they both grabbed the incident with their eyes and used it as a mutual escape to re-integrate. Alright, if you had been half way up the stairs looking down you could have seen the small school of fungus trout flopping and rolling right through the forest of legs as they came out from under the main table and headed for the open doors to the patio. Which of couse faced west and the sea. Fully into the infinite now they wandered away like clouds everone forgot to watch that were the most beautiful to date. A coldness settled in over the remaining guests as everone struggled to remember why they were here. Talk about a room full of eyes that were all of the same polarity became invisible. Everyone headed for the bar with a curtisey born of the respect fear imposes upon ignorance. No one noticed two pale pink clouds saling west by south west followed by a tiny myrid of flashing and whirling purple lights. And if you had listened you would have been the only one to hear a sweet sound as of a breath. A breathing in the night. Peaceful and right. In plain sight. With no one listening but you. Zilla swam now. Zilla rolled in the water and breathed it. Bondaries disolved. Time faced no impediment and in three heart beats washed everything clean. A night dog trotted through amazing grace for the thousandth time and wondered why they did not explode.

She tried not to enjoy herself but failed.Eveerything was fine. in fact, it was almost perfect. the sun was low now and the terrain was flat. she'd piged-out and drunk too much the night before, but it felt good in that cyote way. She was lighter by far, too, as she had removed fifty-one percent of the letters in the words she used. There were good prospects indeed ahead, but, well, she was running backwards. And this instilled guilt. And guilt was a magnet. her heart was steel. so, even as she tried to run away, she was drawn back. And the universe so powerful in its perfectness let her run and run and feel good about it , almost completely, anyways, backwards or not. She entered the cloud backwards and ......

Zilla Dog and the inverse hyku that surrounded and now threatened to penetrate her being appeared like the constellation orion. Her two blazing nite eyes and the suction nipple almost lineing up, as the 'event' occurring at the bottom of the apex of the 'incidental-intake node', a hard nipple on the breast of nite, perhaps, became hot from the friction of that which passed through. Or tried to. All of it could never fit. Too many infinitys in too many directions. Each vector( 'line' has too many other and illegal connotations and the rasta heart that lives here sacramentally escaped into the bondage of the truth of the infinite living family, vegetarinised , and , began to burn, magically pleasant herbs that made the inevitable acceptance of things as they are, just things as they are, water as the ultimate magic, pure non-conductive water, the three membered duo, curving now, heating up, and radiating into itself until it need nowhere to go and the resultant stillness began to form and became the place for life itself, yes, and........)as it came into being by obtaining motion relative to the next because the parrallelity continues(d) even when the distance between them did not...... there had been no other choice and as the three of them sat there in the night sky's dark moving fire pricked skirtrs and dresses sashed with auroa, as they became aware of themselves and eachother, well, the great song of songs was born. All the components were present and the trio formed a heart and the heart escaped and came to earth. Well intentioned and in complete control. And sparked the catastrophy of the imploding life forms here. Narrower and narrower the spaces between us now as we return. As immutable truth devoures and religates to uselessness all knowledge. Just a lonely night-dog in the midst of the blazing bright experience beyond logic now unable to return. Ever. Thinking the spontaneous combustion she ran from while trying to acertain her location but shrouded in thought, shrouded in reasons for itself that could not possibly be. Not even if the first (if you count in that direction) or the second(it does not matter in the least how nor in which direction you count this one) tried forever could they line-up, nor get out of line. Zilla's ear twitched. Was that a song? Was she really just a bitch because of her construction, or, as would seem more logical(appropriate),because with nothing to figure out, Zilla found herself surrounded with song, and didn't need respect anyone anymore? And being free of that socially inverted magnetic field came to respect herself regardless of society. The earth, of course, would not stand still. And Zilla knew now that she would throughout the forever of this particular life be trying to sing like a star being born.

Poetry had invaded her logical thinking .It seemed like the evening changed not only the sky but those eyes watching. And allthough it was impossible, truth changed in an instant. Love become dangerous and mean, stood up like a human snake, reaching across and then,abrubtly,down and through, seeking music that would ravage the ears into ,(yes,you already know),silence.As if lonliness were a beautiful coat she put it on and tried to ignite it. She was thinking so hard about a moment somewhere else that she became unaware(s) of the dangerous present, at hand. She found herself drinking the electric night and breathing purposefully as if to help something to ignite, and a tiny light started to glow overhead. Space and time convieniently shaped itself into impossible shapes because it must contain impossible situations,situations that did in fact occur. Can you imagine the creator tricked by his own creation? Look out into that starry starry nite, can't you tell>? The code word became "anything you want." And this dog, this coyote, this straight line through choas because of the femaleness of genes, the major operation gone awry but in a beautiful suit of song, exposeing what it means to be seperated for too long. She was looking at her dog feet trying to find enough reason to believe. She was dreaming a background to it all that would make it seem like the fact that she was wronged made it better. That demon snake hurt itself until it was done trying to attack her. As if lust were a light and not a bad magnet, a thousand damsels dressed like whores and blamed her mind. So, japanese style, she made herself alone enough to not be seen thinking what she was thinking and not cry. Alright then, the fluid was biased. It was , in fact, under her complete comtrol. It was so powerdful that when she smiled purposefully,like that,words crowded in and laid an eternal foundation. As if children were wired differently until the technicians got ahold of them, television techs. Laying the world open and dumping poision into its heart.Oh,Andit wouldn'tbeso bad , except that it is on purpose and I cvcannot escpaewe responsibility. She watched, and finally,a small inverse hyku
growing brighter over head descending on zero zero as fast as it can,could, sucked reason out the door and left me with just a godd joke I can't remember.

So, just to make it as pretty as possible, on this petrified wednesday afternoon, sitting on the magnificent wave wave of sand, moving her hands under the sand and slidding down in the middle of more noise than could be counted so close to simultanious, the dog streached. It seemed like sleep but she was a leaping an impossible leap, yes, a leaping, a leaping almost sideways hound, the jet across the table throttled back and lowered flaps, like a cat in invisibe grass in the middle of a slowmotion ....the gentle heart awakeneing in freefall down the tiny spaces on the chnaging faces of the sands, crowds and crowds and so many more crowds until,as she coasted down the down in her own sand wave initiated when she streatched, and hurtling out into the river that was so much bigger than possible, as if it were really another world. Another tiime. There had been nothing but waitng before this had hapened here, and as she gained a little momentum, her body rotated as it descended so that her now relaxed legs turned uphill as a grainy breaker began to build against her backbone(sure, there were purple sparks arcing out and up her back, but her mind was so nuetral, so focused on someting else somewhere else, as the waters swallowed her....) and she rolled over. Her legs described a gaggle of arcs, or maybe a numerically analagous quartet, and they , of necessity, were playing together. From their brief performance one would guess it were not always the choice of those involved as they slapped eachother and subsequentially, Zilla, the coyote dog. Before her legs landed, a horde of divergent one-eighty's, her forepaws weere tucked and she was ready to roll to her feet, gyros blazing under the lubricant of adreneline. Cowboy hats appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to circle inside of themselves until a new center had been made out of nothing. This gave them, the hats, substance. Creating a feild of inferior expectations that sucked her brain away. So, snap, an implosive survival circuit burned itself up in use; just like it was supposed to. The 'q' file remained, however , and the problem waas not solved. O.K., put yourself somewhere up and twords the sun gazing down as she rolled and jumped to her feet. And streached.

this is opposed to see a dog using the L&H Voice Xpress was just deranged but say close to five and words. That was 500 words, with a punctuation it was more expensive of course, that was when the punctuation. We're now words that could not be used in the actual dialogue of the text of the document or whatever was. That was where not we're, NFL were so lazy I go back and learn the commands I need to know to corrected we'll to correct that we'll acts we'll at willow wheel wheel and I seem to be having a problem with his and divest word that was supposed to be a command but evidently have scrambled to a brain somewhere. There isn't simple method does training program to improve his accuracy,

She had lost her tail, again. Last time the highspeed dive, before that the windmill, now, lazy words. Lazy words were resposible. They had come and exposed themselves and exhibited their spectacularness but there were so many that , well , it was like taking a cold shower before the pool, before the warm pool which beckoned in the long summer night of .......a telephone put a hole in the side of the night which had behind it in this instance about twenty-nine and a half million pounds of nuetral potential, almost drowning the now indignant horde. Slammed back down without a word now. The tail came of like a lizard's tail, but instead of flopping around as if it would walk or run if split again, it floated. Yes, like a huge catail ripped from the earth by a typhoon, a huge one, yes and it swirled itself with silence that became futile the instant it was noticed. The machine was becoming invisible more often now and seemed almost to welcome the invisbility but the instant Zilla put her attention on that, well, then there was the usual poarizational repelation that was usually found in the key of 'F' with the 'C' blues scale which was the 'am' scale with one half step tripped and doubled and bent end for end in a ridiculously short space of time, ridiculously short. The machine had reappeared and was huge now. It reached up into the now pale sky amoung the dimming stars and pulled the tail down and inhaled it , completely. It came out again almost immediately in the form of two lopsided bridge hands trumping themselves into worthlessness, totall and combined. The machine had now turned inertial and as it passed what it created it bent this into something new and unbalanced that leaned as the whole thing circled, and circled again. There were now pulseing bulging momentoms deforming the surface along the inferior dorsal skirt. It was suddenly obvious to the animal that everything in the vicinity of the machine would be modified. Sent innocent of comprehension into time. From Chucks position outside the office window it looked as if Zilla were stroking a cat on the small table in the corner . He listened like a coyote, his ears actually strainning, finding and attaching itself to the supine animals purring. It was actually the keys on the keyboard. Chuck stopped breathing and swallowed his throat; the damn dog was typing, typing with hands, beautful hands dancing, purring, talking about nothing. Zilla was seated straight and only her head bent foward watching the dance. Charles had no choice, now. He lowered the nose and brought the craft around onto two-nine-five. He put the hood down and clenched his teeth. Rain started to shriek against the skin in waves.Someone put a stroke of lightning close, too close. And from Chuck's perspective now, the flamming tail contorted rythmically and was setting fire to everything in the yard.

Zilla timming was exactly backwards. So perfectly inverse was her hyku at this moment that not only did she disappear, she knocked over a flower vase. This would have been unremarkable except that it was full to overflowing with the most convienient memories you have ever seen. There was a gorgeous sunset from the deck of a tri-maran in a spontaneous doldrun at five degrees south of the zero at the center of any ocean , this one very green , and just to please, believe me. She shot a dolphin over the bow with a fifty gauge imagination harpoon,forcing ,in an almopst hynlick manuvere, out of the glistening beast, a bright whistle that could have come from harlem on a hot short skirt day and probably, probably, a direct linear and exact, as only dolphins can do, replication of William Clinton leaning out his office window almost dropping his tiny powerfiul german binoclars and wolf whistling at a pair of exquisite exsqisite ladies walking tandem tight. The excess quantum of his attentions tingled their skins , goose bumping just above the proud direction seeking nipples. Sublime weapons, untrained, so, so untrained. The exact and minimal splash colapsed fast. Zilla lashed herself to the mast as a means of escape and at last, at last, this hound was homeward bound, tied fast, not movement or sound. To be found like that, and no hat, well, imagine a craft that could take the captain's fat cat to the brig for stealing figs and leave the water on the deck unchecked, until the sun had its fun. Zilla listened to the small hot sounds all over the boat. Varnish was struggling to climb under the wood surface. A dolphin drop of water began to burn. A rope dreamed so hard of twirling in a cannibus gin that is spoke just like an old wooden stair trod by , oh, why not, Dolphins with binoculars. The port rear boom cleat decided to twist it self exactly the wrong way and almost popped one of it courageously beautiful brass screws that screamed in a way that no one would or could ever know exactly what or where that sound came from. And as nothing began to happen faster and faster plastic things began their tiny cacophony of drums. Smelling as only plastic does and combining with a breathing bilge it made the unbounded middle of the sea seem like a coffin twenty feet under sand. This was where teleportation began; edgar casey surounded by egyptian sand until moving was useless. To spend a life time as a dolphin to get used to having no possesions, not even a bed. Trapped in time with nothing happening. So, from there and then, Zilla decided that she would pursue the lazy persons avoidance of conflict and the pursuit of sanity by trying to re arrange reality. She transported herslef to a laboratory in canada and analysed several specimins of dolphin urine and found numerous pharmalogical substabnces.

Zilla would later tell herself that she did it because she had to. But right now, as she stood poised over the drunken janitor from atop a huge shipping crate,inferior dorsal she was letting her journalistic genetic tendancy express itself in black and white movie shorts that she was playing through the port side antirior dorsal logic vent. Yes 'vent' because in this case the fame of a coyote dog single hand(?)edly thwarting a museum robbery, in progress!, overloaded her usual monoral channelised dream schemes and so her , if you will allow it to be called such, train of thought, barreling down through a glorios hall of fame, just glorius......and she took that word and held it up to the bright light and began to extract any motives useless to her plans. While keeping one eye on the bandit bellow, who now seemed to be guilty of trapping himself with his curiousity, and, yes, inebriation based ill-equilibrium, Zilla quickly tried to see herself in one of twenty-five sceneriors she had alredy created since the ill-clad invader had fallen through the cellar doors, weapon in hand. It was only a large broken broom(Charles had fallen on it when he forgot that he was carrying it and rounded a corner and caught it on the top of the railing on the stairs to the side entrance to the cellar of the ancient art something or other associations archives, which, in actual fact, were no more than the residual shipping crates and replaced and broken equipment. Ok, equipment used.......there was a news flash and chuck became invisible. It was revealed later that he was an ex-marine(and knew there was no such thing). And this inverse hyku in its beauty and powerful dual polarity made Zilla hesitate. Just pull back a bit when she put her center of gravity over the edge and there was , simply because of the laws of the universe, no tuening back, she hesitated, or tried to, and the end result was that the nine foot high packing crate she crouched on, creaked.

It had been very different when there had been no audience. The doors closed to this what-was-now-revealed-to-be damp celler. Zilla used to be able to wander around and create complete universes and whole lives encapsulated. Unknown and thus unaffected. She was the particle created by intent. She was the demonstration of the reality of prayer; the desire of the heart drawing creation out of perfect nothingness and only very perfect nothingness, no regrets or confusion, not a thought to direct nor a spot to detect. No hidden agendas. No sand serpents. But now the doors were open and the light had been let in. Zilla couldn't believe what was really there.Nor the fact that all this time she had thought it were something else entirely. She had had causes and beliefs galore and strong plans of action in each of the venues she offered herself, in the darkness. She had designed the motivational sub-structure of each of the subordinate peresonalities she found in the conjured situational complex. Strewn on the floor in drunken poetic styles reminiscent of intense kamikazi hyku were all the external personalities she had been dealing with and in the light she could see they were not, hadn't been, external at all. Not even the handyman. He was the first one to actually step into the fabled 'cellar of Zilla Dog'. He was impressed only with the great mess. It took three days but he found the mangy cur hidding under an old an overturned couch back as far as she could get. He heard her soft growl almost as if she were asking a question. He bent his mop handle double and spun it while turning himself on a relatively polerising rotation. And found himself bristling. And for the first time in his life he wanted to sing. A bass note cellar harmony. The ensuing battle was something of such intense emotional beauty, each of them beginning to realise their connection, that it would later be called a dance. Eventually, after exchanging names , addressses, and insurance companies, they sat down to engage in some serious thinking. Amidst the mess of the meeting. Later , above ground, they settled down.

When she was pefectly still she turned purple, of course, and this, understandably, made her appearance most remarkable. But this late in the afternoon, the sun right behind where she lay, under twenty degrees and falling, you could barely see her. Chuck put up a hand and squinted around a corner of it. He was laying on his back on the terra cotta tiles, looking between his feet at the dog asleep on the top of the wide low adobe wall on the west end of the patio (that was big enough to threaten to become a plaza and make one stop and think). Because the tiny dome to the east of it twisted the perspective. With , yes, a mean journalistic twitch, layered in green pain and lefthanded spirals. It was one of those scenes where you felt you had to see it all at once but knew you couldn't. There were absolutely no shadows in that direction, not a cloud in the sky behind. Chuck bounced a thought off the wall just below where the dog's nose jutted out over the side, just a bit. He put a little dust there and let it roil slowly up until it emerged from the shadow of the wall into the sunlight. And as soon as the first earth-smoke particles blazed into view he twisted them into the most beautiful inverse hyku. And let it dance itself completley apart in slow motin not an inch from her nose. Still no response. Probably because the sun and this wanna-be-sun-dog had let their wave leangths approached themselves with multiples of eachother. . Maybe chuck really meant it and the next shot might be right on the, albiet obscure and very lucky, target. Charles dropped his hand over his eyes and created a tiny space between his index and ring fingers and peered through it like a teloscopic sight. He eased off a shot. It was a miricle shot. A ricochet confusion that panned itself out across firm straight words layered in rows over the south east corner, where there were two invisible trees. Just behind them music seemed to be drawing sad pictures accross a vagrant heart. Displaying a mean streak that would soon turn into a mere disguise. Defused by the eternal knowledge swarming in the trees. Like birds and birds and birds.

Before any of this happened, before enough attention was given, when this was just a vaugue shape in the back of Zilla's mind that looked like a hole, there was no one else to worry about, there was only the one unreflective source in an unreflective universe. As time approached and the contact that was to be made began to loom on a manufactured horizon, the dog tried to talk. The dog was trying to talk without a voice using american sign language. The dog needed hands. And, as you may have already gueesed, this was no ordinary dog; this was a coyote dog that had begun to call themselves(yes plural personalities) Zilla. In favor of Godzilla, the drunken holywood bum. Because some honor was due it was felt anyways, regardless, and this dog now began its reflexive pile up of verbal debris. Around such an aching heart. She took some pointed toes in heels and pushed them tapping down a rainy street. She rolled over and painted the shoes in teal for big feet and made the grass laugh as it all passed. And as she returned her eye to its gapping red and throbbing socket she heard the sounds of other eyes returning and looking. And with that audience and because of the tiny crowd this enabled, Zilla realised that there was a reason why when someone was looking at a creation(can you do that?)it began to move. All her art, when viewed, crawled away. Imagine a canvas that bunched itself in the center in just such a way that the frame seperated at two opposite corners and as the now knotted canvas at the center twisted the two angled halves of the frame became legs with which it noisily carried the whole work out the door with what you would have sworn was an attitude hanging out of pocket somewhere.

Desperate for an alibi and still invisible, Zilla slunk into the dark upper room. Chuck was looking out the window from a huge chair nailed to the floor with ideas. He was painting furiously upon the night sky in one of his anti-allergenic purple melodies, soon to be 'r'-less. Not to be found in any paint ever made. Except here. As Zilla tried to become fluid and find a black hole undert the desk in the corner, Charlies face becamelonger and longer. A small one-drawer-needle-legged-not-quite-tall-enough-letter-writing desk was the target. Zilla throttled back and watched her airspeed trying to anticipate the soonest possible moment to lower the flaps. It was as quiet as the inside of a refridgerator. In her all consumming stealth Zilla was not paying the necessary basic attention here and bumped a leg in her initial twirl to get herself located on her spot, there, and Charlies mind tipped, just a bit, though his eyes didn't twitch, but felt great as royal purple cascaded down the window, behind the stars and planets and, probably, beyound the universe itself. Charlie was thinking purple thoughts and Zilla was fighting not to yell at her funny bone. She looked frozen. Her shadow was blinked green and for that instant as she looked down at her feet she thought for a moment that they were developing fingers. It became a purple cofusion. Zilla dropped to the floor and cast an ether net for waves of any kind. The room coalesced and of course Zilla thought that she had done it. She smile d a special smile full of 'd's, both big and small, and one 'r', just one, once. And this potential for song, and here Zilla emphatically said nothing, this potential which had already painted beyound distance and time purple, that had already joked with dolphins at three hundred meters down where they go , occasionally, to get high from a pressure release nitrogen rush.Zilla could see them now; floating up amongst their own bubbles laughing and wondering why and laughing about that. Zilla let go of each bubble as it passed and created a vestigal mono-charge just waiting to be changed around a campfire into , well, maybe even a cat. A lopsided green cat trying to walk through, yes, a wave. Suddenly the universe was full of waves and Zilla was ridding a huge one down. It began to turn funny and she couldn't find the track. Everything rolled together with that underwater sound.

....there had been waves dregged up and dumped in the back of a pickup, puple, driven, almost, by one of the original space cowboys, and the radio was on. Again. Inside the cab it sonded like the silverware tray for the dishwasher were being taken up and down the stairs on a run and regardless of how many untensils fell out it never emptied and the runner was fueled with the .......well, something. And Zilla had to vary the generator rpms precicely by useing the tension on the fan belt. It sqealed in that iceburg and titanic way and nothing could be done about it. The feild she was modulating was being used by a third(and fourth) party to manipulate the ionic form of the vtamin that made the template for the excess electricity present amongst the waves bouncing, sloshing, but remaining a tremendous weight and throwning the truck from side to side alarmingly, so that all the niacin would suddenly disapper, with a flash, really, from the poor lad's metabolismistic framework. As the young man changed into a completely fearless 'attack' driver alone in one of the biggest desserts in the galaxy, he actually thougt he was on his way to the intergalactic court house with the historical files to prove his contention that the prime directive had been violated for profit. How much were the fruit of the trees of knowledge and eternal like going for back then? Zilla gave a twenty giga joul spike to the feild and collapsed it as the now franticlly blinking and sputtering driver was reaching for the ignition , to grab the keys from himself. The resulting surge fried his hands into dog paws. The truck lurched sideways over the broken trail and the combination of the moving weight of the liquid feild in the back and the varying drag on the engine stood the truck on one wheel. For an instant. Everyone was listening to the radio which had appearaed out of the din, between one and another thing, and it was the recording of a dead man, singing the blues from deep within rock and roll, even painted here and there with zydico. For an instant , the e was chinged, the balance was level. Third party connect. Fourth to the forty fourth in the womb of this phantom machine, trying to not lose heart. The dog knew that to be a journalist on had to expose to themselves the uselessness of romace, of national pride and anything else not strictly all inclusive. Settling down again as the engine almost stalled when the sleeping dog lied.....

Zilla was a purple guided missle in her sleep. During her waking hours she wondered. As she opened an eye and the world rushed in much too bright and loud she knew, not without apprehension, that today was the day she had to cross the great desert. Her personal Toa of space vs time. This was encapsulated in several unbalnced situations between her location and her destination. No, she didn't know that yet. Better for the story she knew but it added to the already snake-under-the-sand apprehension. A weasel of a word now, aligning its uni-pole field to divert adverbial sounds to come down around close and tight enough to force the shedding of the last appendage and grab and align the stability of a big 'D' ( in small guise, of course) like a cap onto the gapping, void sucking, tail end. Now she had a closed system. She could reach everything from one location. She took a purple guided missle powered by wonder and headed north by west. As lonely as she'd ever been and traveling straight and true. Someone was there inbetween, just above the street, watching like a cat. With a flag for a tail. Such a beautiful beast at first sight. But closer inspection revealed nothing but inversed hyku in the form of gross poetry balanced upon wildly directed cliched causes. the claws were transparent adages. the eyes could not be seen at close range, completely reflective. the vibration at first assumed to be purring was an angry machine caged in nets of extream laziness. And , as you must be able to see by now, the missle needed to be caged. But, obviously, the inertial energies created and aligned and then opposed to each other turned what was meant to be a dire and dangerous situation into a dull empty morning. Zilla tried to force herself to sleep but the machine was out of the cage. And eating the rug in the hallway. She sighed and sniffed her own breath. Effectively giving herself a complete physical exam. That solved or completed she began the long process of removeing purple guided missles from her dog bowl. Briefly, before she started, she burst into a mantra;" I am Cyotius, I am life without a name. " And she knew that the first thing she would do when she discovered her hands would be to mark her bowl "cyote" and challenge the gods of language to drop the "o", beg karma to release her into namelessness, and, well, yes, take a nap. Ride a purple missle. looking down she realized that there were several large ones already on the loose and fooling with her food.

Zilla was confused by the controls. By the language that described the controls. That it was getting dark didn't help matters either. Across the room something fell and bounced. And bounced again and again, skipped a beat and then again. Diminishing in the perfect acceleration of dimishing returns when pointed dead center at the heart of infinity. Zilla had managed to stabilise herself with that last verbal bearing. Her mis-spelling at a minimum she turned into the wind and lowered her gear. She set up a powered descent as best she could and tried to wiggle the wings and locate a response somewhere on the jungle of a control panel. She leaned foward, raising herself up to try to peer ahead and immediately was surfing a gigantic vertigo wave. She blinked and forced her reeling eyes down. And lo and behold,she was looking at a haman hand. And she was so totally amazed that she accepted it like we do a dream. Immersing herself in the wonder and then acceptance that at last she could hold a pen! BZZZZZZZFGHT!!!! It was the radio. Zilla couldn't help but appreciate the unexpected but before she could even get indignant the deep feminine voice broke through the recent gale of static ,breifly, and told her she was on a bad approach. But what could she do? She focused back on her marvelous hands, the fingers were now stroking themselves as if they were involved with the creation of a sensual morse code of the digits, and not sure how to enjoy it. The hands were suddenly on their own. I can try to desribe the shock, the loss, that Zilla felt, that evil and ruthless fear that lives against the wall of reality. That changes everything the closer you get. Yes, oh yes, the hands were moving now and with all the will she possed or could find and out guess she tried to keep them still. But in their union and on their own they had found eachother and were able to generate a weird type of spontaneous independance that, seemed so at least, to be caught in the contagen of the ancient inverse hyku which drew them calligraphically across the nerves of time. Yes, like a muon all alone. Thinking about a one polarity feild. The space dreamed of created by a change of direction. Suddenly Zilla remembered the rug and was able to count the beats correctly even with the gap. Even with the nothing that could never be crossed before. She counted, watching films in her brain. One and two and three four,five..........six seveneightnineten....of course, the small throw rug in the hall had cushioned.......a buzzer went off and sudedenly Zilla had no hands. She pulled out her emergency dialouge and barked at the radio. It squelched back. For effect!

The room was huge and dark. From somewhere something had made a noise. And several living things in this room noticed. Some actually heard the sound. Others were aware only that others had noticed something. Out of all,one of one of the nine million distinct groups of designer life forms present, one had sneezed. Disrupting a nine million year silence that they had all been working on to get it to lead itself into the guiness world book, of course! But as obvious as it was to someone on the 'outside' that the longest possible silence could never reveal itself, it only became apparent to one, dare I say it, 'life form', in the room, the immense inside-a-rock-black room. Imagine a coyote wail winding itself crazily up an unkown scale, fracturing rare alliances and seperating essentials from the grosser vibrations. The subtler nuances turning all the ants in the hallways almost a half a second west from their genetic north so that the chemical trails would would turn to rivers and flow to the sea and along the coasts of the room the fish became sci-fi monsters, multi sexed almost jellyfished or electrically self-immulationised shadows wandering on the other side of the waves. Medicated waves, washing livers out to sea. The animal was getting wet now. It didn't like this. Perhaps it had happened because the jailer was bored. Maybe someone didn't close the door or latch the gate. Maybe someone somewhere dropped a name. emabarressed a coyote dog into a smile.

Zilla hovered over the circuitry. She had put herself in that place just beyound reason where she could see the impossible place between dark and light, day and night, and slip out of time. She collected herself and bent everything else around her so that she could go anywhere in an instant and see forever. (she had never told anyone she could do this and she was sorry now) And just as the diodes in the rectifiers reversed polarity all of a sudden, probably because of an ancient wandering ionic storm and Zilla's natural tendancy to magnitize her personality in the , careful here, worst possible way,just then, a strange signal came through. Looking down now through a confusion she had painted purple, Zilla tried to fuse and open the diodes completely but they were made of metal with a low boiling point and the vaporized particles coated that area of the board and effectively turned the suprahetrodyne circuit into a field sensitive amplifier. This is what allowed the surge of current that blew the releys to the vibrating membranes. This is what caused the water in Zillas toilet to spin the other way going down, for just such a small instant, but it was enough to disrupt the inertial seqence of Zilla's return to the world of time. The tip of her longest nail on her left rear foot just brushed the inverse hyku and the whole circuit on the board turned into a supraconductor. And the fly in the ointment? Zilla's attention had not been focused enough. There was an area in her mind where , as she frantically typed up storm after storm on her wailing machine, she tried to draw up that heaving breast into hot breath and got only dry bones in motionless empty of even air; lost love consumed. Contradictions everywhere straight through, no resistance. The small residual current cleaned the plauque from her teeth and Zilla smiled. Smiled as only dogs can. Begging for forgiveness for the smile's imperfection because of her dog's face. Making me want to touch her, pat her head. But there were dark electric lights potentialising the space between us. Even the sound was being inversed into weird hykus about saving grace in intersteller space. We left with our thoughts. Didn't nuetralise a thing.

Betrayal littered the desert room. There were unfufilled desires scrambling to dress themselves up with some of the shinnier discarded qualitatives and the noise they tried to make was absorbed by the bare and bald face lie curled up in the, yes, yes, dark so dark corner. Zilla , chin on her paws, gave it a try. But her justifications wouldn't fly or hide the desperation in her sigh turned whine and then, yes, into a yawn. And as much as it is possible from an already prone postion she collapsed onto her side, closed her eyes, and was gone. The deception changed complextion. Its fragile center of gravity began to move. Zilla smacked her chops in her sleep and blew a dust ball from under the, why not, bed. Yes,ok, four poster and small, then. Allmost a child's bed. And Charles noticed the silent motion of a bug sized something from somewhere deep within his disasociated circuitry as he leaned foward over the desk at the foot of the bed and tried to dodge the sun's arrows being thrownb through the glass onto his face. He struggled to write with a spectacular grimice on his face. He would lean foward under the impetus of an idea and blind himself and in the recoil he would lose a bit of the idea and it would helplessly begin its degenerative mutation. Twitching her toes as she sprinted across the desert vale Zilla made friends with the plants in the room. Her eyes bumping and rolling under their flesh dress she greeted the bugs in the room. Her tail gave a gentle thump as some collapsing field potential drew amperage out of thin air and Zillas naturally occuring crossed wires ran themselves through the natural strainer of the indescribable act of writing , and, get this, writing for effect! ((Zilla streached and stuck her ends out from under the , now, intimate and intricate bed. When Charle's monkey mind grabbed that vine protruding now and visibly breathing dreams, well, the third of the three had arrived and space and time could combine to find a place for a cyote dog to do in rest what it cvould not do in jest and ........the dream did what some dreams sometimes do; it fanned out in all directions and left such an unbalance in the center that the center itself was lost. The sun slipped away and allowed room for a giga joule of intent to flood a keyboard that had achieved a true state of nonsense in the middle of the typing lesson for dogs. That randomness seeks order because of time became a saving grace. Zilla was licking the keyboard deep in her dream now. From deep in the dark heart of the basement of the fluid building a glob of mercury gathered and prepared to cross the invisible moving apex of that so perfectly straight line of time and huge fans began to spin. Starting with a jerk and buzzing as momentum built they caused a shift in pressure that moved the air in the room exactly as it was needed to move the dust ball that had so recently appeared from under the bed. Moved it as if it were a tiny tumbleweed bouncing in a gale across the huge empty desert of..........and directly twords a bug. OK, a lost and loney bug who in its confusion thought the dust ball were a threat and discarding even language ran for the nearest cover which just happened to be Charlies shoe, or rather, under his shoe, just infront of the heel to give him(her?) maximum head room and, of course, charlies reptile mind........and zilla's potentialised paws.....and furnaced cellars.......eight eyes, two stomachs and no brain....struggling twords....flaming debris was falling from.........as she turned....a car door slammed..Chuck began to laugh as he looked around. He thanked the great spirit god nameless one for the good medicine in irony and took two pills, wrote about writing all nite and too shrill a vcoice to be used to call anything let alone this, this, morning. Ha! And he let the laughfter purge him until he no longer felt bad about being basically stupid, selffish and afraid. all the time. for some reason

The old man was sitting on the side of the sand dune. It was not that big and faced no cardinal directions nor had any sort of remarkable shape. It was one of the slower dunes. It had learned to favor it lee side, it seemed, somehow, and, also, somehow, had learned a little Spanish. This particular evening was full of things almost inbetween. The tide was right there with the hole that the sun had just left in the sky, that perpetual and perfect place where it was impossible to tell which way things were going, where time almost reveals its lie and hearts seek their own level and fly, just fly. He had a hat. The brim was almost too short for a desert trek but it would stay on in a gale. From where I had placed myself I could see bright colors on the band. Of course I raised my point of view and zoomed until the band rose halfway over everything. And what linguistic phantoms! Dancing there slower than the eye could see. I moved closer still and I swear I could smell the cane and hear it cracking softly as a wind tickled the standing fringe. I wandered out that way and looked down and over. It smelled like tobacco and rum. Now a thousand years old. There was a sighing sound behind us and without turning anything but our eyes and unable too see anything through our fear anyways, we knew. We realised with a surge of unreasonable terror that she had returned! Zilla was back! Not only were we afraid to look and unable to do so because of the paralisis of ciruit breaker fear but we were completely defeated by the knowledge that we would have to, eventually. I turned up the volume because the words the old man was about to say would be soft. I tried to crop the scene at the top of the dune but the damn dog was already half way over. The sun was already below the horizon so I couldn't try to fuse eyeballs here. With no choice about it I zeroed in on the old man's face, turning my ear into a humming bird and just floated there, listening. "Damn Dog." said with as much love and relief as I have ever heard anywhere.

She was sneaking up on it. And she didn't even know what it was. It had moved and touched something in the weeds below the small patio she had stuck on via a 'no where else to go' vector she had used to break the rythm of the endless tailored desert. She let her left ear search like a magnetic inverse light house of sounds for any noise and set up a tiny irregular vibration in her right raised paw. Her left rear leg was trying to escape gravity but the very tip of its longest nail just barely touched and retouched the , well, yes, why not and could it be anything else, sand, and millions more everywhere. She was hovering. Between breaths even. It was one of the swiming snakes that had escaped the typwriter before , running away, laden down wih "e's" trying to avoid any "z's" and diving backward in to the sand, sounding like tearing paper as it rubbed the saw grass. Down across the river and the small delta and lagoon across the wind a seagull whistled. Zilla was listening so hard that she couldn't see and the frequency was just right so that when it over lapped with the reedy sounds of the snakes in the grass and the random beating of the wind through it, it forced the emission of a small but very long sound from Zilla's throat. Pretty far down the back. And this final third in the minuet synphony for keys on keys by keys, well, caused, made, bid, demanded, implored, recieved the final stroke that sonded like a surprise but was already old before it went through the key hole and Zilla disappeared. Everything impossibly big now ruining up and down and all positioning. Somewhere looking for something.

Misconstrued and deserted. Filled with after thoughts. Lonely as only a forgotten work of art can feel, Zilla drained all possible comfort from that thought and turned it into something someone else had done some long time ago and threw it down. She watched it roll across the side of a dune and curve and slow and fall and disappear. She wondered about her origins in the cloneing competitions. She wished all the scientists hadn't left. She spent the next hour and a-half fighting river rapids made of pickup trucks and cigars on huge white walls that were creating heat currents that moved the sand as if snakes were swimming in it. Zilla's motion had become so close to perfect that she had totally forgotten she was trotting across an endless desert. There were so many spaces between her words now that almost anything might might get in and change the whole thing. She tried to move the whole composition into a new blue shoe roll but before she could get a wing up the nose went down and she found her self plastered to the top of the canopy. Fortunate for her as the bottom fell out and space moved in.

She purposely left herself on a tiny atoll in the magnificent sea too south of east to ever see the north star. She relaxed purposefully in jest. Hotel on a spiny rock and roll meant to be a mouth at least to describe what is finally no one, no one at all, unless, of course, with the sea creeping up and down, devouring the town.

The first thing Zilla was conscious of was the sound of pain. And it was red behind her eyes. Every time an attempt to move was made the grinding inside her ear shot flourecent blood meteors sprouting backwards from the inside of the eye lids. So, she began to think and think hard. Where was she? She didn't want to open her eyes! Too noisy! Briefly she had a picture stapled to the membrains on the inside of her eye lids. And she could see immediately she would need more time. So she did the only thing she could; drove the staples deeper by opening her mouth and it was an ocean. No, no, a desert. With a moving point. The mission was immediatly clear; To combine somehow perfectly the vector and the time in their created space. And get three. The moving point had ears and a tail now as the brief tiny movement behind the eyes blasted everything out of existance, again, with cacophonious red. Zilla left herself alone behind the mighty curtains. And she spiraled downwards. Chooseing to lose bits and pieces of herself. As she watched. She wasn't really choosing, of course, but she had to have it seem that way. To seem as if nothing were by chance and then to remember and wonder how. She gently brought the radii in closer to the bending vectors making the smaller and smaller gap more and more powerful until, with a loud snap, everything went to inverse hyku mode.

..she was running and needed fuel. She had displayed to her self as many noble causes as she could think of. She had placed a single tree on the sunset horizon and tried to feel it grow to know that there really was a difference between distance and time. But the image from the dream lingered and everytime she moved, she got further and farther away. Times twice. Again. and again. The distance across the sallow silver of this desert only increased. It had nothing to do with desire. She had mounted turns and elongated borrows, stepping sideways for no reason. The river ran backwards for a terra second. The fish starved in midair. It got darker and the tree disappeared. No moon and probably something wrong with the air. Zilla smelled Charlie's cigar smoke and almost said 'quitar smoke' to a passing void. Yes, void. Almost like in the card game, bridge. Wirth an inverse power function ready to overturn plans and egos. Make something so petty into something so valuable and then lets the winner assume the prize which is to get to see clearlly what was won. The game that never ends because it was never begun. Play imposible when there is none. Not one. Chasing dog-thoughts across and down into another timeless night , zilla forced her mind to contemplate the spaces and shapes between the grains of sand. As they moved. As they briefly danced. Random romance. Then just time. Imovable. Racing slowly across the largest desert there could ever be.

....it was so dark that she had a hard time standing up and when she did her lack of balance forced her extremities wide. She tried to stabilise but sensed she was about to hit her head on something but hadn't a clue which way anything was or wasn't. She had the initial vector and tried, unsucessfully, to decifer whether to add or subtract one-hundred and eighty degrees, she knew know why they labeled the top and bottom twice on the inside so that even trapped in a large angry inverse hyku you could manage to climb out of it from any orientation. As long as the initial vector wasn't closed off by a limited time frame. As long as she didn't make contct with anything during the three or almost four seconds needed to locate a frame of reference, skyward. But it was black now. Power failure in the deep. Zilla tried to remember wether or not she had sent all those warranty forms back to the various factories. Knew it wouldn't matter probably because there would be no company next week, let alone factories or a delivery truck. She scratched at the hollow plastic all around and tried to read it, but there was nothing there,in a very small space. She felt the panic start to rise and blew out all her reserve. A humongus resolute baseless knowledge came running forth at this point and guided everything into conjunction at the same place and instant and the energies were so balanced that none was spilled into anything else and the space left where she was , well, it closed as if she had never been.

If you had been looking out over the north rim towords the south east. Yes with the water falling into so far below. With the glistening eye of a night bird looking so closely at the details. Watching the glint of metal all around you and perhaps you have a pen. That you carry all the time, just in case and even though, even though. You know. And standing there it glints in the moon you covered the sun with. Time grinding itself to pieces in the darkness. Not a sound anywhere. The sky really empty this time. No trucks out there. You could maybe drive one out there. Get one out there. But,........

In the middle somewhere on this recent journey to sleep from sleep Zilla found herself cornered by blank places, everywhere. She put a small oriental pot on a low wall near the the steps down to the river. And as she put the waters into summer melt mode and threw in some steelhead bouncing up a series of small rapids and falls, she figured the sun would be about there, just up and completely free now of any enchroaching shapes, distances or ,even time., for a while. She squinted her left eye and headed twords the stairs. Behind her a tiny purple flower struggled as it bloomed, as it hung over the side of the exquisite pot. And she shifted her thinking to the left side of her brain as she struggled to co-ordinate her four legs on the irregular winding and spacing of the staircase she had found, convieniently, leading down. She looked there and saw ragged holes everywhere that let her look right out on the total nothingnes in which the known universe lived. She had to use five packages of adjectives and even connect a few of them with adverbial inferences while an almost invisible word littered potentials all over the place(calling them 'flower petals'!) that built up unexpectedly on the lower north side of her left handed cortex, the fingers of which tried to count the individual letters to approach it close enough to do the initial sylable count, but, to no avial. The railing didn't arrive until she touched the sand at the foot of the steps and brushed the end post with her shoulder. She risked a look back as she trotted across the narror beach. Just as she thought; the railing was on the hill side. Following it up with her unmagnitized eye she wondered at the ratios involved here of distance , perspective and engramic memories of long hard climbs. She let her good eye find that diminuative purple flower and pale bowl. She forced the eye away from the blanket of sound the approaching river threw down but did not turn or slow down. She tried to fill everything up with forgiveness when her gentle feet touched the icy river.

In her dream she became Diamond Dog. She let the sun assert itself until it had no more and time swept in, a covey of coveys of delirious flailing quials, sounding like doves, covering everything in darkness. The choice was clear. Hovering over the marshes. Time neared a colision with it self and spontaneously combusted, dragging the gleaming dog down the rich night sky like a fish against a dark, too dark, river. She chose to clothe the black blankness in comfort and weave herself into a perpetual vacancy and give it a charge, to lean it all just one certain way once. He remembered falling out of the plane and looking up as if it were down. And the complete peace of no control at all whatsoever, until, like the other side of the coin, that becomes the blank plate for...........Diamond Dog, seated at the typwritter thought as hard as she could about a particular emotion and tried to precipitate it on the blank page hovering in her virtual typer She tightened her face like a bul dog and then , with a breath like exclamation(ok, it was , almost, a howl, but, hey , we are all journalisats at this bar, right?) bbean to type. The surface of her paws in contact with the actual keys on the key board forced down several keys at once and in order to do the whole procedure again and do it upside down, well, she just put it all in capitals . red caapitals. with a soundfile that was very very dirgicle ,with the sounds of the key board like the percusion section at the locked and back door,trying to knock in timer sense with the larger rythm, hopefully , the , larger rythm. A sond file looking for a face. And not just any face. No. She had put some time in of Vulcrx Four, home of the Inner Songs. These drunken metaphores made everyhting they said seem to elicite a sympathetic response except in those who, well, had strnuous typing and spelling problems but also several iverse functions to try and right. As they came up over the first of the five hills of sequence Zilla bailed. She let the truck drop out from undrneath her as in boounded over a small ridge. She imagined herself floating over niagra falls.

Trying to put a pleasant face on it. Trying to keep a pleasant face herself. Trying to extend the meaning and feeling of the face of it into it, Zilla Dog was danceing and trying to wag her tail. The dancing was necessary to try to avoid the chains and tools and bottles and cans slidding and bouncing around in the back of the truck and so the tail wagging portion of her presentation was difficult and suffered, becoming, at times, impossible. It was hard enough trying to make the morning co-herent while dodgeing vagrant gravity and inertial time and mass deviations. There was a radio somewhere in the truck and this was why Zilla held on. As best she could. No hands and all. Zillas universe consisted of a paralell dream. Right between the fourth and fifth link of the larger of the two chains wandering like mean metal snakes across the bed of the truck, there was enough room and time for the creation of a minute gravity sink. She imediatley coupled with it and sent an inverse hyku right up front. Now this driver had been trying to protect himself from just such an event for the last tweny years by consumming massive amounts of , well, there is no way to say this gently; alcohol. But in what turned out to be a beautiful morning, with one hand on the radio tuner and one hand trying to hold a bottle and the sterring wheel at the same time, the driver, the captain, the free form paralell, began to sing. This added vibration happened to be the harmonic of the frequency generated by the old magneto in the wildly wailing wound up engine stuck in low gear, here, out across the desert and if you put yourself out in front and watched them come twords you, well, they would be disappearing behind wave-like dunes and then rising up seemingly out of the sand as the invisible hills revealed themselves with invisible magic. The harmonys conspired and superseded even the polarity of things. There was a very tiny hole in the fabric of the universe and both Zilla and the drunken driver careened twords it. Someone would have hung the picture on the wall. A golden dog and a drunken bum seeming to fall out of the sun and drop behind a virgin, yes, virgin, hill.

Over the hill came a blue pickup. Ancient it was. From another time entirely. Driven by a self-proclaimed scout for the intergallactic tribunal formed for the investigation of the violation of the prime directive as regards the third planet in a minor system on a minor arm and way way way out there, really. The hill was, when put in a perspective, a mere bump in the trail(by no means a road) beneath the long white faces of the cliffs that rose like waves all arond. There was a radio but it came and went with infuriating infrequency. You could hear the chains he kept in the back bouncing now as he came down and around into the shadows. Not many on the planet would still remember the wine of a grannygear or a coyote dog and so there was a loneliness involved here that only time brings when it brings you back to a familiar place after a time. And somehow, though he had never been here before, he knew exactly where he was. And that there was nothing he could do but go on. He rounded a bend and pulled up at the river crossing and got out to survey the passage. It was bad news; too deep and too wide. In order to get any kind of hero over this treacherous flood he'd have to use his 'drunken coyote manuvere' and this would reqire more language than he had on hand. He stood from where he had been crouching and drew his radio, somehow like a sponge, and put it to his face as he turned. Half in the shadoe he turned the transciever on and brought the squelch up then down, for, you guessed it, effect. He clicked the transmit button twice then held it closer to his ear. His large left ear. Nothing. He became aware of the sound of his hemp shoes on the dust and gravel as he drew a toe a few inches infront of and across the trail of randomly running ant. It stopped, tworlied its antweni, and called on old Louis Carrol himnself. And headed off at right angles , with just as much purpose, it seemed. He looked up for a reason he only knew afterwards. And there blotting out the sky completely was the 'mother ship'. The poor barbarian was last seen being drawn up into the ship via alien magic screaming and laughing and managing to choke out, loud and clearly,"it;s about time!!!!! Its about time!!" And just as he dissappeared up into the bottom of the enourmous ship he was heard trying to contact the only persona who could possibly do anything to help the situation; "M M, come in, M M. This is L L. Give me copy!!"

He came through the door and, for effect, with a trailing hand, slammed it closed hard enough to rattle the glasses on the cupboards. What he needed, he was thinking, was a storm big enough to strip the situation naked of the hollow heroics. Send these people out into a real fire fight and then make them sleep in their shit filled clothes for three days. He bellowed a short laugh cut off by a deep sound from the bottom of his stomach as he dropped into the huge chair. The double gymbaled chair behind the desk and supine keyboard which lay gray upon the golden blood of the wood top. And now the sun appeared and seemed to move just enough to put a sword of light across the room, up the front of the desk, straight across the top and into , ah, this charecture's eyes. Which burned now. His hands moved twords the singular instrument before him. He breathed in to make himself a limitless creative ocean and smelled his pungently dying socks. He thought as hard as he could about the great spirit god in the light that blinded his eyes. On the verge of greatness he remembered. About to change the universe and something came up. There was a scratch at the door. Ah, so! And the gigantic figure now, now revealed in the friendly tirad he was able to give the door upon his approach, revealed so completely and simply that this gigantic nothing of a man became grateful that his dog, his golden-like-the-wood coyote, had forgiven him. Actually sought his imagined prescience and presence. There were dangerous words on the loose everywhere now. There must have been invisible weights shifting themselves around and through the room. Through these two fellow beings' hearts. They seemed to move ever more slightly until this bitch coyote dog had lain herself under the desk and his legs and so that a small strip of sun laid itself just across the end of her nose and the nails on her toes under her chin gleamed and moved just like fingers streaching as she settled in for sleep. The soft tapping up above became a mountain stream and she was following it down. It must be morning. This they both hoped together and time bent the light again as it slipped over a cliff face twenty kilometers south of south west. Towering white cliffs now with a tendril of pure water falling into mist and disappearing in the wind, the wandering wind. For effect the hound dream-howled and moved just enough to almost touch the man. And he added three adjectives and one adverb that simpy could wait no longer. The ocean they had found themselves on waited for instructions.

The captain was enthrawled with the strom. More than that he was about to lose his life in the most degrading way possible for a captain of a sailing vessel; knocked overboard by his own boom. Unawares, Captain Jeramie Hahn (the 'h' was from when the family had 'Germanised' its name) fought the wheel and rejoiced (here, the machine wanted to continue on with violent and revererant words about a heart rising out of choas to short circuit everything into balance, at the top of a rearing, exploding behemoth crest of three waves that met and combined underneath the seeminlgy tiny ship and lifted the rudder out of the water and in that moment of slack, perhaps, even a relitive moment of silence, everything hanging at the critical point ,and, the boom line snapped......)but a dog, never a more not a sea-dog dog, sicker than sick, trying to grip polished boards with dull nails, whineing with the wind, just as the boat reach the apex, the wave top disolved in a shriek of wind and then as if to take a breath, there was a space, and in it, as the dog rose weightless now with everything else, except, except the boom line. The line that just a moment before had been humming like the highest note on a piano broke with that distinctive hollow pop. Everything rolled out from underneath everyone and everything and from where he was looking, captain Hahn ducked a floating dog that sailed twords him eyes wide and frantically clawing paws shredding the air. The boat began to descend and rolled the other way. It was as if the dog were a distorted ball pitched by the wind into the bat of the boom that almost snapped itself because of the combined tourque of roll and pitch with gravity and wind contirubuting to the , now, mega joules dancing and loose about the deck and it swung in a snap like a bat just above the capitians hat(miraculously still on his head) and clobbered the poor animal. The sound was just like ......well , you can imagine, and thank the great spirit god nameless one that this dog was, you guessed it, a magical coyote from the deserts around Albuquerque. So, she , this Coyote, her name is too important to invest here, watched the storm from the inside. She streached the instant and relaxed watching closely as the now foundering ship and fallen and now hatless capitian consumed confusion and disappeared from sight as the storm waves, literally battling eachother concerning the direction of the wind, combined and combined again, begging a story to begin.

A giant mixed metaphore almost fell through the bat wing doors. The bright sunlight blazing the white dust street outside blinked and everyone, including the dog, looked, or tried too. A little girl at the north corner of the room seated at a table turned but the back of her chair was too high and before she was able to climb up and stand on the chair to see, it was already inside and well into the deep shadow. Everyone's eyes were cringeing at the huge bright spot left when , lets call it a uncivilised gentleman, dragged eight thousand pounds of curiousity into the room before him, in every way that phrase could possibly be interpreted; chairs moved back even not in his way to better let the spectacle arrive. It was as if he had done surgery on the room , opened it up wholey to where everyone was conscious of the infinity between them all. Not a word was spoken. The bar keep looks up and over and pours a shot of rye. He spins the bottle upright and it is as if he were undicided, and no other movement was made. Suddenly everyone had to leave but could not but knew they would, eventually. Big double 'M' looked like he was going to laugh or something but his face was just out of reach as he stopped and turned as he looked down and began patting and searching his pockets. His coat had a very high collar. The little girl tried moving into his shadow and out but could see no better either way. She instinctively like him. And felt he was seeking some sort of needless forgiveness for who he was and what he hadn't done. The dog had been moving this whole time. No one but the child noticed the desert dog slip out the door and down the side of the building. The child happened to think about the sign hanging outside the door as a gust of desert wind bufed it and make the chains make tiny this short crys. And all while upside down.

And Zilla's tongue was green now.From the garbage she had eaten in this moon town in the middle of the desert. And against that blue it created an inbalance in the eyeballs and this, when coupled with a midnight desire to hit the desert floor running(even if it was actually only ....),made her head feel like it was full of sick gyroscopes ,all trying to tip the earth back on its axsis. Before even the garden the instinct for life burned and that was all that keep Zilla's brain alive. That and a short sip of air every fifteen or twenty seconds; the exhalations were long and drawn out affairs and included the tensing an relaxing of all the muscels in her body. She was on the verge of mach two seven and the controls had become sensitive to pressures that seemed to wander over and around the ship, pushing it with little tugs in a climbing turn, into the sunlight, of course. Zilla's tounge was out of her mouth and had dried itself to the surface of the pavement. Her eyelids weren't completely closed and had also dried and adherred to the surface, always the surfaces, of the eye. Time became the judge. Space became the case and Zilla's fianal and lizard mind just wouldn't let go. It was on a surface that carried the vibrations of the original noise, the original movement. The prinmal scream continued in whatever it is that resisdes next to , right next to , the vacant center, and moved the wires in her coyote heart just enough, with the nuetral spit copvered pavement making her the perfect capacitor with pre-set thresholds of a milli amp at micro volts, just the minimum needed to close the switch. Would someone come in time? Had someone already been there? Was there an end already before a really very vagrant wind found the last trash can Zilla had been in and blew it down upon her. It was as if someone had pluged Zilla's ears into an outlet and put her tail in water. There was (ironically) an inverse potential released that managed to pull Zilla to her feet. She , in her confusion, backed into another can and scared herself silly when it sounded like a car comming from somewhere. And immediatly, like instant karma, like the nine hundred and fifty-seven that had almost mowed her down last nite, as she staggered out of the alley blind and deformed she was almost hit by the morning newspaper truck as it tried to avoind and ended up bouncing over the can the had hit her in the head ,beating her to her feet. The shriek of tires and the terrified and vile oath of the driver tumbled the compass and she felt she had no choice but to reverse direction. This was the initial mistake that caused all of the following. Zilla bumped into the back wall of the bar and caught a new vector in her blind and noisy universe. This, as fortune would have it , was across the street between two sunday morning drivers and one confused and angry truck driver to a construction site. Still in the primary layout stage there were only a few foundation trenches dug. And these were full of last nights radioactive rain. Zilla looked like she were having a very weird dancing siezure in her slow but determined progress. She thought she was moving in a straight line but she curved, curved beautufully, and intersected one of the deeper trenches. You can surmize the rest? No? Well then, let me put a beautiful bitch in the pound in the same cage where she would end up. Let me take the initial antagonizm that sprouted and grew and tangled even their breathing and the non-looks in the eyes, Oh, yes, the lip quivering as it climbed up the huge tooth, like a completely hurt woman slowly raising her dress above her ankle, almost to the knee. Allow me or not I will let the civilization of necessity impose itself on theri tiny and fragile space in the future. The Doa of civilization would descend.

Her personality had been rudely forced loose by the circumstances surrounding her discovery of her origins. It had started to collapse as she realized that there was a definate plan for the future and it did not include her survival. She had come down the stairs this morning without looking out the windows and so when she heard the tap on the glass she wasn't prepared to look up and see a six fingered martian cupping its face close to the window with long long fingered hands, somehow really like a suction cup, a big friendly suction cup. Zilla had frozen herself so completely relative to the martian that she did, in fact, disappear, briefly. The knowledge of her Martian origins was tranfered in total in that brief instant. She dropped out of hyper-space rudely too. The Martian, let's call him, Wowo, had seen the animal dissappear and immediatly, instinctively, reflexively, closed his(why not?) eyes to watch more closely for something behind him with his seventh and ninth senses. What had been intended to provide a ground path for Zilla's genetic potential had become in fact a barrier between the idea of responsibly enjoying wild science and what seems to be only able to describe itself with the words, "powerlust." And "inverse sex." which seemed to be trying to denoate the idea of immortality for even doggy ideas trapped in the middle of an imaginary dream about typing without hands. The momentum began to build as the gulf between the three of them became not so much greater as intolerable. No one had noticed, except a very small bird(somehow Zilla hoped it was the same one who had stolen the tiny flying machine's keys)which sang as loud and as hard as it could but was swallowed easily by the uproar of ideas now swarming out of the old desk in the study. The one with the half eaten leg. The culprit machine had been chained to the opposite corner but everyone knew that it was no use. The situation was generating too much vacant space to ever hold anything secure. The bird, the alien and Zilla all took notice, at the same time, of a large and abrupt intrusion. Not unexpected but still startling. The white cliffs all around seemed to lean in and the air became heavy with time. Silent writers all in line. Waiting and waiting just to pass the time. Everywhere but where you looked. Pefectly the wrong time in place. Oh, yes, their hearts were in a race. Trying to see god's face. Trying to get the name, the place.

Somehow, in the confusion generated as she stroked her ego with colours and skies and super-lucio motions ,quite relative, even to the point of isolation, imagine, and the energy released when the particle or wave or idea or whatever Zilla was holding on to so tight that it had no choice but to implode into the silence under the bed, no matter the the noise or comotion in the house.Somehow, she had lost the trail. She was in the deep desert now and had no choice but to run for it. The white cliff faces all around were invisible but could still be found as the night breathed on them and the wind tumbled like waves up them and then down. Sounds were everywhere else too. There was the creek and some noises that would never be satisfactoraly acounted for by anything one could think of. There were the redwoods across it that never moved but were never silent and their speach was a quantum potential hyku trying to lean twords the center of the universe while it knew that such as that could never be found. Zillas eyes as she saw through time to the phantom basis for matter, as the inverse potential waited forever counting her breaths and her heart beats, even her thoughts, for no apparent reason, as she entered just behind her sight , saw everything at once and all of it perfectly in focus, as long as she didn't look directly at anything. Clocks were disappearing again. She thought of things in a difficult way now because she was sleeping in a drug and prison economy run by a drunken boy, yes, lost in the desert of power without consciousness, and scurrying(that word, again) deeper into a house of dangerous cards, unreadable but intended for whoever looked and the inverse potential generated there, right there, was enough to keep Zilla Dog asleep for a week counting missed chances, foiled romances, self-induced mental cancers, giant dogs turned prancers, ah, with children in their teeth. Zilla was beyond speech and so she took her phantom hands out and began to wack her imaginary keys and what issued forth and ensued was like an electric vector seeking nuetral neutral ground, or a ' really means it' dog. Zilla's heart entered that horrible confusion when the brain cannot come up with even a phantasy formula to explain anything that we do to eachother. It became even more horrible when she realised that not only could she not speak now, in the heart of a deamon dream, buit she actually couldn't speak at all, ever. There was, because of this , a potential building up on a set of chemicals that controled the amount of and proportion relative to each oher of some amino ions, left after Zilla was badly burned and almost eaten by a clone at the party in the garden. Oh what dreams Zilla wanted to dream, but the time for that was past and only the desert remained. And the woman in the cage of expensive drugs. Zilla knew now that there was bad medicine in the wind that fought time under the cliffs. She tried to watch but it was like water in a hand that was only in the mind, only there. Zilla dissolved, of course, and tried to place a potential next to Suzi's heart so she might not believe that she was so terminally alone that there was nothing else. When the mass of contradictory thoughts reached that critical mass point and became the endless bottomless hole of experience generating experience with no breaker in sight, heading to the bottom of the sea , careening and careening again to find something, anything to come in contact with. She knew now she would have to find her voice. A voice. Any voice. Somewhere a string tightened itself because of temperature change and began to vibrate as it heated itself from the internal friction generated by the initail temperatur drop, creating an ocillation , that had to, just had to , wonder why so hard that the raw potential strewn about there trapped four Tchchofskys and four betoveens and one, one, hendrix. And maybe someting that felt like dylan but said nothing that turned itself into the cream paint on a bus station bathroom wall. ' Visions of Johanna make it all seem so cruel' was probably the name of a new gum with artificially stickiness that ,, okay, really, got out of control, like the typewriter. Which was actually trying to crawl across the floor aftre strangling the damn dog with its own hands! Its own author's and pilots's. twice! And upside down. Glasses on the back of her head. laughing as the machine ate the leg of the table. The lights went out, again, and the noises lead the mind away to places it had never been. Zilla brought forth the fabric of the universe in the extremity of her desire to not die and wrapped herself in it from head to toe. Gentle colors suffused everything.

Zilla had become blue and she loved it. She loved it because now she could bring along a small crowd of mourners. She found the ridge and ran alongside sparkling on the verge of invisibility in the darkness gathering itself below and behind everything. She put a crescent moon incredibly in the midst of Orion and watched everything change again. She veered and rose through the air to the top of a wave she had placed just there and turning to ride it back down she wrote inverse hyku about her home town. The typewriter crashed to the kitchen floor right where the linolium met the wood and poets would later swear that the dog was nowhere; this was a full out coyote bonzia kamakazi from somewhere in Wisconsin, perhaps, or Chinese Russia, or maybe a lab in Austrailia. Do you think it mattered? No. Zilla was on the trail.

Zilla lept from the secound story pourch. Through an open window that would have been behind her if she had been facing the wall of mountains all around. The air was stratos thin and the morning clear clear. Zilla would have landed neatly if the floor had been just about anything but hard wood or linolium and since this kitchen floor was both she sprawled herself and tried to dig into the floor by flailing, albeit feebily, and creating a strange racket on the roof of the downstaairs. Where Charles, deep in contemplation of contemplation, paused while lighting his pipe with a wooden kitchen match. And thought about little aliens up on the roof. He followed the thought down, catching it between the five and six as he rolled out of the inverted, holding it in his hardcore sights with gentle thoughts as Zilla brought herself, through no fault of her own, up against the kitchen cabinets under the sink. They were so well made that she could tell immediatly by the sound they made. A little satisfation in that perhaps. She collected herself and headed for the stairs, slipping hilariously, briefly, again, and again until she got a paw on the carpert at the head of the stairs. And halfway over balanced already she froze and managed to drag herself close enough to get a secound paw on the fabric. As she came down and around the bottom of the stairs, their eyes met and their eyebrows went up in querie and simultanious affirmation. Chuck suddenly bellowed. His finger was almost on fire. Across the valley a moose bellowed and you could almost feel the fish comming up the rivers searching for sex and death. Zilla avoided it all as best she could underneath the guest room bed. A disoriented fly diagramed the prepeually repeating square, first this way then that and back, and Zilla resisted the urge to snap by counting to five simulaeously. They were five sided squares someimes tilted just enough to give a sixth vector which imediatly reduced it all to a single vector who's energy signature as it faded from brilliant fire purple to deep rose curled as only the shortest distance between two moving points accelerating each does, but only one remained when they were seen simultaniously. Only one thing was left when the two were seen together. So, then, loniness itself is a drug. No explaination possible but needed desperatly. Zilla sighed out a soft groan that would have made you think there were, briefly, two flys under the bed. They both were sleeping now and for a moment everthing was fine.

Zilla was tired of the dessert. But there was no where else. Somehow her mind had traped itself into a reactionary pose that made it impossible for her sight to escape her political opinion. Even the fleas that populated Zilla's topography felt it. A sense of resigned ignorance had descended and started to put lines all over faces where they shouldn't be. The oldest and thus most respected member of this paracitic tribe , whose face looked like sci-fi, called a meeting. She(yes, matriarcle) put the end of her third right leg on a rare white inverse helixed hair and thrust her probiscus down into flesh searching for the field around the nerve synapsis tangled in and around the root. It drew close and them backed away very slowly until the current and voltage drop reached a neutral resonance. She(shall we give her a name, or just call her 'sister bug'?) fine tuned the body-wide circuit by creating spontaneous feild colapse in locations where capacitors were needed that would attract the other fleas to their needed and exact locations. Sister Bug was thinking very very hard trying to mange the varying resistance comming across with each step that Zilla made. Sister Bug noticed that every forth count there was an almost nuetral place and thus space for her prepared message. She harmonized herself into that space and connected up with all the other bugs on Zilla's body. And began her speech. Do fleas weep? Does pain teach? Is there anyone in reach. Is this a plum or a peach. A request or beseech, A smile with no teeth. Pants without a crease. To love and never cease. the cadence was aberatted but exact enough for time to heal it.

It was a dog dream, for sure. Genetically enhanced babys finally driving her from her home. Beneath the garage, in the arms of her psychiatrist, Zilla tried to sleep. Frank, her alcoholic therapist, rocked back and forth in a very grand rocking chair, so well made that even after fifty years the only sound it made was from the woods meeting on the floor and crushing varnish with wild sounds. A winding soft shriek from the left rocker woke Zilla and she heard Frank's practised voice soothingly reading a list of medicaions produced by chemists for the general public to persuade them that they needed medical attention for their minds and the oxymoron perpetuating itself when the practitioners were forced by financial woes to sell the remedy that was supposed to eliminate the need for either problem or solution but now, so horribly, as in Zilla's case, had become a self-perpetuating tendancy to keep that friggin left foot deep deep in the rudder, searching sleep in a flat spin, wandering down, through the sky. Over medicated now, there was no chance whatsoever that the professionals would be able to come up with, find or achieve that oh so delicate infringement upon the, equally delicate, balance a simple mood will disturb to be healed by a tiny bird that stopped on its way and looked at me, at me!, told me in and with that, that I was worthy to that worthy. That was all.

Besides haveing to run while compensating for a profound and perpetual tendency to veer to the left, this coyote dog had , and despite the fact that she had no fingers to see, drawn a straight line from point 'a' to point 'B'. The details: It took her all night , it was a moonless starless sky, it took all her might, her children were everywhere. She took the details in her mental six fingered hands and strummed them. Looked you in the eye with an animal dare that could change its mind in an instant. Ok, then. Lets put her out on the reef as the tide was comming in. How she balanced and tiptoed from sharp and ragged point, yes, a small 'a', to spots inbetween, almost no time beneathe the pads of her feet. And the two or three small crabs she had found she had gradded and tossed to avoid the claws and lost to the now rising sea. She growled and yipped at the phanton that ran with the breaking waves up the treacherous shore faster than she could on this bristleling rock made of broken shells. A hundred , perhaps one hundred and ffity yards out on the narrowing peninsula, Zilla stopped in mid stride and almost fell foward into a reaching wave that tore itself up and splattered down and around everywhere, and tired of these words, Zilla started to turn. She was balancing varying legs to varying degress and looked like a really lost ballet dancer, if she hadn't been a dog. Zilla, imediatly, resented that. She tried to look at me and watch her steps at the same time. She had almost turned all the way around but caught herself and slowly started to turn back. That must have been when she realised and saw that if she wanted to get back to the sandy beach, she would have to swim. Just then a larger than the late average wave knocked Zilla in the drink. Her head strained out of the water with rapid paddling and she looked entirely insane with a wicked smile and drool mixing with sea water streaming back and down. Now, twist the sun down and light her through a veeneir of a breaking wave. Turning itself into particles, for an instant, as small as could be. Zilla coldn't see. Zilla couldn't find a direction. Zilla began to paddle out to sea. Perfectly, she and the sun itself touched when they met where the sea met the sky and tiny bean bubbles followed her out, a little behind. I knew now, it had come clear; Zilla was laughing. So hard she couldn't breath!

A purple dog creased the sky line, brieffly. Just like before. Up over a small rise and down the other side. Simply for the sound of words together. Oh, she had tried to find 'the word', the one sound. Yes, and spent several tours searching the sky from the optical illusion of flight, of day and night, hell, even war and peace from five miles high are just about the same. I tuned in my scope. Latest version of sci-fi, right there, and zoomed in , to harmonize and justify, across a brilliant morning sky. She had been running all night trying to write but everything she wrote looked like that fleet of drunken boats. Historians would later argue that she had been drunk but that was only half-true. Like everything else. So, in a Japnese style , she took the blue belt and felt it as true, almost. As she trotted along I could see she had looped it around her neck and was letting it drag behind between her feet. And behind her trailed three smaller versions of she. As the sun came up now, again, and I could see out across where ever was, I counted them all, twice. And looking up at the sky calculated it all down to the magic of pi squared as the function of the circumphrence of a loud sound. Abruptly, and in unison, almost, the flash of sun on glass and the growl of a small truck in low gear and the cry af a bald eye owl and the sonic boom of silence moving through everything just seemed to , well, end it right there. Where nothing was true.

besides not being able to spell, Zilla Dog, couldn't fathom this thing called 'grammer'. It seemed that there were now several problems with the 'telling of it'. It was late at night and I wasn't there, of course. But , it would seem that when Zilla wrote, she was tempted and fell prey to the dissociative qualitiies of the actual printed word as opposed to the idea that moved them into somekind of place. Style rose like smoke then and words began to resonate in almost colorful surroundings that they would create and uncreate like clouds or snow. Zilla found herself wanting to sing. To find that peculiar vibration that allowed her to transcend the artist's need for approval. Need for anything. even art. perhaps, especially art.

Zilla had slipped through the radar and under medical detection rasta supervision attested to the fact that dogs, and maybe especially coyoties(she stopped. Sat down on one hip. Began to scratch and sneeze at the same time and enjoyed, ridiculouswly, even to herself, the spelling of the word) She really wanted to mexicanize the greek. She really wanted to take the word and shake it until it fell apart. Like she'd wached her children do with the pile of money they had accidentally dug up at the crash site, but that's all in chapter five, somewhere, I think.Was there a parenthesis there? should there have been?. aren't we beyound that now? So, Zilla's flight of fancy this time involved a meditation on necessary desception. She put herself briefly on the stand as she rolled it over and let the stars dissapate. She tried to explain how the truth could not be handled. But it slipped away. Yeah, maybe only coyotii. Maybe there was in the pretty tail something left over from the genetic competition, like the spider's balls on the left rear leg scrawled in the dust where it wouldn't be seen until we took to the air. And I will tell you now that there is not a piolet alive who was not dissappointed with flying. That even in flight the deception linguered. She pushed the stick foward and watched the red curtain fall. In this dream a spider danced with dog hairs too near a candle on the mid-nightest midnight a writer's desk ever had. She looked up. There was a figure standing against the , of course, huge, windows. They all turned at the pop and crackle under the candle on the desk, the blazing black desk. I swear I saw something disappear over the edge of the desk but the tangle of melted dog hairs sealed everyone else's assuption that I just kept a dirty desk or that I let dogs sleep on it. Who would ever suspect that that is where I get my cigarette money!? How the damn dog writes, I don't know. I never see any of it. I see little of anything to do with it, actually. I told her once or twice not to come in with mud on her paws. Before she ushered me out and closed the door. I did see a note she dropped from her pack on the way out, oh, about a year ago. It said,' how to beat a dead dog effectively', I had to stop and scratch a flea.

..to reach this far she had had to dodge a dozen designer fda approved drugs. Thorazine was one she somehow couldn't, didn't.. And the thought of it made her almost fall and she sneezed so it woldn't look like it had been. (a coyote trait) She trotted along an almost kinife edge ridge. So different on either side that the eyes were straight ahead. She would have put over against the roses in the purple sky, outlined, a philosophers hut(with cable!) against the rizeing of a gigantic full moon. But something on the roof! Maybe a chimney , ah, ha! maybe a goose! No matter or use or excuse the passions of a dog like me! And that drew the vector down through the damaged language. There seemed to be harppoons all over the deck and, what!, electric eels! For effect, for a test, a request after the death of the electric typwritter; its coyote mind gone to bigger and better places; the expansion when viewed from system side was , well, it made it as if it were criminal to smile and breathing was taxed. there should have been someway of getting across, she had supposed anyways. you just couldn't tell any more whether it were desert or stairs that wound around and up and down for more than forever squared. so she toned everything down to a bare minimun of sight and sound and listened to her great heart talk as the moon rose over the inverse ground. As she contained herself in the rythms she contained and issued she thought she looked like a blow fish fully inflated swiming backwards to save its life when in fact she appeared out of nowhere, slithered over the ridge top and for an instant looked like a wave riseing and falling. the night was young and there were rythms everywhere. Zilla put something that might have been a vegetarian ufo just under the moon as it rose. suddenly his table collapsed to the left because none of his words had any meaning. later that night when he opened the window so he wouldn't jump through it, he heard a coyote howl and wondered about the matrix of wave and particle and zilla, in mid-howl, stopped and looked around as if she had seen you, and was trying to pierce you with her glare, and he leaned foward, sniffing the air, for no reason, that he knew, now. And suddenly there was a noise as if many waters and zilla dog was so low when she went over that she sucked everythingup and of th4e picnic table and even a tortilla from the baby's hand. It fell to grond and as Zilla Dog did a wingover she kept an eye on in. She lassoed it with anticipation of,a after a time, tracking it down and using it for a deep and prolonged meditation. When she came back over she was even lower, riding a ground wave compressed enough to pull the snot from my nose as it thumped by. Everyone stood and shouted in a fifteen, no, sixteen part harmony, "that damned dog." Unbeknownst to them, Zilla, climbing out at twenty-five thousand feet had heard every word. Zilla looked down at the controls and saw her paws. She tried to look away fast enough to remove the look fom reality, but she knew this were not only imopossible, but, dangerous as well. When an f-14d experiences a supersonic stall, the piolet, ussually, realisess that the less done the better. turn everything off and wait for the bell. the arrow of time pointedd and pointed and pointed itself again and again until late that night Zilla was, well, just a coyote dog again.

there was what looked like an axel from a sewing machine; and this will be mentioned once again for balance sake, the rasta smoke itself defeating the best drugs ever designed by.....dogs, in the fourth dream on the fifth night of her abscence from the hotel, it appeared, to have come from either a sewing machine or, a very small windmill. it spun like crazy out of control all the time. all the farking time! And when you let the wings bend themselves back, in some dream, some coyote dream some lonely angry night and the front desk had been alerted immediatly and guards placed on the roof and in the cellar, below the basement . and now, now everyone waited. trying not to sleep and wanting to as if it were a drug that they had always needed,just never knew til now, before this point in time, there was a dog, or rather , a dog-like creacher circling the stair upwards and up ward again, afraid of the sound her feet made, on a surface like ice, like hot metal.There was a wave of fear rizing from nothing and nowhere so intense that there was never any doubt that it would be the central and lasting motivation of the tale in general and the random vehicle, this, this coyote, that had tried so hard to be cruel enough to love , but, like I said , she was sensitive in a very special way; she had golden hands with jade fingers with mother of pearl nails......I strive to create a 'where' where simple love does triumph. And so this circling dog becomes a jet plane gone insane. It has a private unique smell that changes with the intention of the vehicle, well, almost. And if you let it get away , even for an instant,........again this dog thing almost slipped, the wave almost fell, the flocks of big birds began to cicle after a fearless and prolonged terminal dive. It had been seemingly out of the setting sun, now right in the eye. just like vfr. used to be. zilla dog tipped a switch with her nose and the special glass of the bubble turned dark and the outside took on the appearance of, well, as if Zilla had suddenly realized that she was a rastifarian , not to worry the exact spelling either for you see, zilla's parents ,grand and great and grand twice had all been journalists.

Zilla's rockets were not only exemplary, they were not there. She put herself into a high steep climbing curve to either make it matter or not. It turned out to be not. At three hundred and forty two knotts and, obviously, it was useless to try and tie them and throw them over board.And, also obviously, every reason to put to sleep all the reasons and emotions contingent with .......but the target had fallen out of the circle and off the screen and was no where no where to be seen. This forced Zilla into a state of almost instant sleep(of course!) and Zilla always tried to grow fingers in her sleep, almost always. It was growing dark outside this place; anyplace, of course, of course. The bottom had dropped out by the gauges could not compensate fast enough. There were 'up' and 'down' written in red on each side of the nuetral climb but the senses themselves had been inversly hycoud and the eyes were fooling themselves constantly with the same foolish verse. Suddenly a prime verb bounced off the detector projections(whatever they were) and tried to sing a song, just a brief, brief, oh, so brief, tune about, well, semetry, in the arena, on the blacktop, straight from the keyboard from hell, located somewhere on the highway to heaven!

Neo-dog's pockets were not only empty, they were not there. But it did not matter. It did not matter in that she, in her sleep, was no longer aware of her addiction. Of course let me explain that. In the back of her dream she tried to wean herself free and clean from anything mean that might be seen in her heart of hearts. Lets just call it a , well, 'magic' dream, eh? It fit together perfectly and the universe was pleased. "Possessions" are why the dolphins and whales crawled back into the oceans. They too had dreams. Even without light. the tools needed to leave the sea were too expejnsive and , basically, confusing, after a point of no return; just have to have everything. All of it. And that was everyone. All the time. The one's that never made the adjustment , some not even the attempt, were sun-burned away when they dried out completly. They all had to come out and breath the volcanic air occasionally.For seeral centuries. (this was when it was not all that unusual that an occasional over-eager genetic-breeder got too close to their own creations and suffered themselves to become part of even their intestinal track and reptillian brain. Zilla barked in her seep. The house was so quiet that it seemed it were listening. The language it heard was almost unintelligable, but, never mind. It, the houst of course ! Not the..but I degress, as I must, again, oh well) And this cleared their minds. Of course. As well as gently entering the deep and far away good dog dream. In this resulting revelation, as this proceeds to unveil itself to be nothing more than a typing lesson! Imagine!! This, as Zilla Dog, your basic purple (when held at a certain angle under a certain light under certain specific time zone contractions, where it took less time to get anywhere, geometrically, at least, at least. "So, is it clear now." a voice scrambeled in her brain. Ok, ; the voice sounded like forks being dropped on the cathedral's wooded floor at the wedding where, ha!, a coyote just had to watch ,from a very recent, and I mean as if she'd never left', all the guests drinking their fill from flagon and bottle and as much as they willed until..........they found the small typist under the table on the floor, arms seemingly above his face, which lay, looking to the side, the left side, of course. There were unused quotes all over the floor, there were verbs around his legs that were almost familiar ,just begging for more. I quickly found the clock. and jammed it down my throat! Yes! To mock!! How everything seems to run at its own pace. Now take these dreams for instance. Lingering and actually travelling through time and selfishness and wisdom through fear, all that , until minds meet because they see themselves as the coyotes and smoke they are. Now this is not to say anything like that. But there it is. It was the darn dog's fault. But then again I should Have known; she is a coyote.

It was a dangerous dog that came into town that day. The zoom that the scene produced on itself as she approached the center of gravity of and on main street was startling in that as this animnal brought itself foward in size and detail, the detail itself became more invoved and the beast looked suddenly huge, as if it were occupying the whole center of the universe. There were many things squeaking in the wind as it tried to hurry the hound down. There where the signs to the saloon and bank, promenient and really struggling through the gusts. There were unlatched screen doors and a background hum riseing breifly, fadeing away quickly made from the flutes the mailboxes had become. So, as not to mislead you more than is necessary for her, this coyote quanta day-dreamer's, (this word is actually in bold italic)'sake', let me clearly indicate here that this dog was lonesome and the danger lay all around in the potential to be noticed and become a focus and thus.....but I exceed myself, dangerously, here. So, let's just suppose you were in her mind with the word 'sake' and you suddenly became aware of how that word had forsaken her, bluntly, and without any other reason than an inane and self-professed dangerous idea about language , specifically words, and the actual intent, where the whole thing tried to magnitize itself to, when the words themselves disappeared and drifted about in a different relationsip to things, their own references, from outer space now, or , as in this case, an alcoholic beverage from Japan. Sake. The foward gyros would need a trim after this said her mind to the bitch she was. That she was continuing down the street not loking right or left nor up or down and time laid itself out, perfectly, again, in seven steps to the secound. Have you ever seen a mouth open coyote dancing a straight line across the usual desert in the unusual shrieking wind. In a trot? A tumble weed bounded in nice twirling acrs, bouncing and raising a small cloud of dust which outraced it with a long arm that strached itself quickly into nothing

.. the group of young rich and ,of course, famous, bio-engineers burst into a combined shriek of mad mad laughter that was like shatterred glass thrust through the eyes and ears from the inside out. This, as the spider they had just created, died from internal spontanious combustion. If you had been there looking into one of its eyes, particularily the smaller ones lower and to the outside of the two larger main radiation collectors, it would have been like the tinyest most perfectly beautiful question mark. So serious that it wold never even be considered for an answer. The answer loomed all around the diminutive curly-cue blazing itself away in the middle of the sea without light behind a cyrstal made of flesh. Imagine! The lens would begin to try and contract in response to the pressure of the heat as it began to spin the elemental living plasma chains and the centrifugal vectors locked the complex sub-chemicals into each other and so there was no where to go and tiny wandering charged fields, potentials, locked now into eachother's opposite member number waiting room, unable to move, of course, and so, yes, they fracture. Both sides dissolving in minute veins of blinding light turned completely off and totally imovable. But the universe is much bigger. Much bigger than the drop falling through it. Can't help but completely guide, direct, totally dictate even the tiniest part there of, thereof and guides it from a higher perspective and purpose. Something not concievable but not unknown. As Zilla stopped and searched for the cause of the spark she had seen flash ,smoke drifted , in thought only, across a tiny portion of her oh-so-beautiful coyote mind and silk jammed in the spider machine. It made a beautiful explosion for all those outside the bowl, huge, both, and, yes, of course, crystyle, of a particular and unique heat and pressure process combined with the natural still absolute zero spin and the tiny so tiny added wieght of thoughts of smoke just dissappearing. In the midst of this unexpected scientific confusion, Zilla had the answer. It came before the question. Somewhere on the otherside of a really strange desert a spider exploded. And Zilla had her vector. She climbed straight out at two and a-half 'g,s' into and right through the dazzeling blue bright morning; free at last!

Zilla flew the jet so fast that she became invisible. But she knew someone was watching. Anyways. She waas visible somewhere beyound sight. Where seeing was knowing. An awareness of something because it ,too, was alive. Doing something too. Even as that was a perfect nothing, even if that was nothing , still there was noise, and to be seen , tracked down, and, yes, eaten , metaphorically, of course, but it wouldn't hurt anything if you made it scream, maybe even had it crash to floor and flop around there as if something matttered that much, as if there where a blind imperitive wandering around a bunch of hallways put in place and now, now , Zilla, invisible, banked the jet around a corner so fast that her eye balls touched her toes. She saw stars

It began with the first bio-genetically engineered trap door spider. It actually began with the tournament of supposes. On a recently flooded and flushed planet , knocked of its axisis , a little, tumbled even, and the indiginous animalo like like life could be be tweaked and re-placed and next season, which was on or around the thousand to one, the kilo, per unit of time ratio .......finally somewhere huge flabby gigantic spiderds fitted with virtual reality sensory imput , weaving forever motionless, IV'ed. The silk was writhing through the floor whenever the blobs of crusty pulp tried to imitate the movements of a surgeon walking the wire of all these webs , behind the electric scabs covering all the eyes. The second genetic sequence run after the patent had been filed began what might be termed a breeder reaction, a exothermic spontinaity. When the aracnids asummed they had finished their webs they asuumed also that the had caught something almost immediatly afterwards. This rem sequence, this eight eyed rattling within, sparked the potsynthetic germs. Germs stuffed in all the places where the attempt at balance would create a space big enough to clap itself together and kill everything whenever anyone stood up or sat down. Whenever anyone signifigantly changed their mind. And a single thread inevitably lead to the ultimate destination; thick thin defeat and win, and, yes , just betwween two incredibly fast and meaningless thoughts, just as the third molecular in the reaction changed to an ionic catalyst because of a tourist's flash buld and the photo-sensitive germs. everywherre. So Zilla gatahered herself together, getting ready so hard that she shook from an overloud overlode(she sounded almost like a corn flute) and leaped.....

..a mile and a half a mile above the stone desert floor Zilla balanced like the top of a tiny tiny breaking wave. On a poly matrixed quarter inch cable made of spider's silk. Only three of her feet were on the line. The last one was searching nothing blind repeatedlyand she grimiced yellow teeth and hummed. Much too far from the solid floor, her and her humming.Virtually no echo, reflection, or contact on all outbound radii from her, and more specifacally, her, the, intuitive point. A point usually located just above the small white ring around her left rear ankle. She tried to close her wide wide eyes and couldn't. Somehow, just barely and somehow, she managed to slide a paw back , yes, back, a little, not much, you would surely only barely see it if you were on top of it. And what made this incredible was that she was progressing , well, backwards. A tiny bit more of the cable came into view but Zillla had magnitized her eyes with her controlled terror and, so, even though she wanted to look,she couldn't, wouldn't. And now something dark gathering at the corner of one of them commanded her attention but her beautiful rock eyes didn't even budge. No.. But one of them, probably the left, was, fourtunatly or unfortunately as the case may be, influenced enough to cross the magic line betwenn a thought and a rock. Yes. And in that very exact same moment of time , her left paw brushed the cable and froze. A static build-up at the introduction of her field aura charge to this particular section of the cable dematerialized the leg to the knee. What looked like a smoke ring flew about as if it were on fire yet never blew itself away. It was rare , but it did did happen. And at the contact a billion joules, again, and again only because she loved the word so, so much that google joules finally, so finally, broke something somewhere in her circuits. She began to sway and knew it was over, all over. The story was meant to be read aloud. By someone else. Yet here she was. Without her children on a high wire and missing a leg. To boot. Zilla remembered in a very large moment as moments get, then, there, like that, when her mother told her a tale to ease her fear one dog foul pound nite.Of the dangerous man who was sought by a herd of animals , the likes of which had nor would ever be seen again, if at all. There were lions and tigers and bears and crocadiles, to name a fraction of a fraction. There were insects galore galore waiting behind, just behind, the hooves and claws and fangs. And the sharks in the water below sliding throught the paranas. This angry tribe of animals was crowded on the edge of a spectacular cliff with a mighty churning river like snow at its feet. And the man,well, he was hanging on. Hanging on for dear life to a small shrub tree growing about halfway down or up as your case and choice may be. He, of course, of course, looked up and got hippo spit over half his face. He looked down to let gravity help his free hand clean his face and caught the eye of two sharks and a whole school of the paranas. The branch was, of course, and so seriously, extending itself with little snaps and weird whines that violently deformed but not shattered wood made. Everything was right at the end of time. And sudenly, out of nowhere and as if it had been there all along,( here, her mother, had raised a brow and leaned down, a little, as she told it with other stranger than science sounds that meant so much more than.....mere words) a beautiful huge strawberry appeared. Appeared right before him. He looked and something opened inside him. He let go as he watched it like he'd never watched anything before. And as everything hurtled perfectly still downward, a spot near the top of the gigantic strawberry had a tiny white ring that seemed to move, a little, not much. Yes, Zilla was about to see the strawberry. If it were there at all. Something glinted like glass in the distance within the strawberry somewhere. Zilla's eyes were looking through an approaching flock, no, swarm, of birds at something that could only be totally upside down. No matter. She could see beyound her emotions even though they were all red-lined; increased to the point where they were meaningless.A small reflective surface peeked through the swarm of approaching birds and provided a ground so that she wasn't electrified out of existence. But three legs on this swinging wire, I don't care how strong, was a grim, very grim, situation.

Looking through the powerful binoculars I could tell Zilla was injured. And she was loosing her balance. She wasn't an unusually brave animal, coyote or not, and when the huge flock of birds swirled and landed on the wire her trembling feet were trying to walk on, well, she lost her cool. She looked, I was sure,amazed and then angry and then, as I watched, her whole body began to assume the color of an uneasy, yes, oh yes, sky. And as the darkness gathering arond her began to coalece, her left rear leg began to search for the moving points of balance, the dancing centers of gravity, now totally stampeding through themselves. She started to turn red a little at a time. I clicked on the doubler and amped the infra and zeroed in. The wire was begining to swing side to side as Zilla began to fight. The fight for her balance was instinctual, and therefore not at issue, really, anyways, inspite of the things her leg was to say about a , now, hopeless search for balance. The real fight was the one with fear, her very personal terror, that now was opening an invisible door, and began to move inside her chest. I tried to re-double the image again but even with the infra there just were not enough lumens left. And the screen became that redish rose soft light in a sea of noise. Black birds churning themselves into some conglomerate around a wire exactly strung and tensed and now become a inverse lateral pendulum worthy of Edgar's drunken sadism. The red roiled itself through and through everything. I lowered the binochs and pined for the audio. I imagined her angry yelp and snapping teeth as she tried to disperse the black swarm roiling through the , may I?, cosmic, oh-so-cosmic, red. The living black swarm expanded and then contracted so hard and fast that I even started to count the distance for the clap of thunder. I had just started the nine-thousands and had two zeros now, like eyes, between the two nines as I slowly climbed. And they were like eyes. Green night coyote eyes traveling at the speed of sound and on this extreamly humid cold and huge timeless moment, they flattened me. It was as if I had been turned inside out. And I had a dream. And it was inverse hyku. Coyote timeless moon song finished. And now.....

there was a vacancy that was so perfect that to touch it would spoil everything. Zilla walked around it. She sniffed. She lowered herself down in the front with her paws out streached and her elbows clumping , and quickly, quickly, she put a wooden floor in place.

Zilla tried to keep everyhting aligned as she watched the wave rise behind the heat in the sand. Her left ear involintarily swiveled twords the call of a gull. And a fly lands and attempts to crawl into her right nostral. The inbalnace was immedate and ,still watching the wave, Zilla struggles to her feet to keep her balance. On the face face of the pale blue singing wave a dark figure bounces down but can't catch up with the bottom. Zilla squints as she tries to walk foward and when she finds she can't control her left rear leg, still watching the figure now on the very crest as the wave started to reach over itsefl, she moans in a harmony within the wave itself which managed, somehow , to hold up the toppling blazing crest, as if a wind, a wind from no where, for no reason, just breathed itself against that wall of water and the black dot slipped through and dissappeared down the back side.

There were three camp fires on Planet , for lack of a better name, xqy47. two of them were normal. One had , unknowingly, consumed part of a container that had a plastic derivartive that somehow managed, when burned, to turn into a catalist between experience and emotion when it came in contact with the epidermis of human clones. Exclusively. So, when Zilla stumbled into camp, that camp, she found herself inexplicably surrounded with cloned and crying clowns. Stunned, she coalesced into an almost catatonic state that resembled what the statue of 'the thinker' by Rodin might look like, if it were possible, in coyote culutre. There were nine of them. None seemed to notice Zilla's arrival but they stayed clear in the seemingly random courses they weaved amonst eachother, their eyes never meeting and seeming to search any and everywheree else for clues. Deep in her mind, Zilla pulled the pin on the frag and kicked it twords the fire. An atom had caught an inverse spin charge potential that , in a molecule as stable ethelene, curved its potential trajectory so much more than it needed to to stop the explosion long enogh for Zilla to think.

She had been thinking and thinking about where it all began. She had tried to force herself backwards along her trail but everything looked entirely different and turning back again after only a few steps, she knew she was lost. And any movement in any diection would only make her predicament worse. She sat down hard in the sand. She wasn't aware that she was making small sounds in the back of her throat as she swiveled her head back and forth looking for something familiar to point the way. She let her emotions rise just to the point where they would fuel her body but not cloud her mind and her head snapped from side to side as the search became emotional. It looked as if she were watching bats. She dropped all the way down on the sand and crossed her front pawsand lay her chin there and looked out across the now confused desert. She knew what she needed now. A pickup truck with a dream in the back. An empty dream. Where she could run for hours and never mind.

..she had been running for hours now. Well, not running, maybe just jogging, or is lopeing? Trotting? Her gate was far from regular and thus the attempt at a 'scatter gun' approach to description. She dodged an adverb that wailed itself suddenly in her path. She tried to keep an eye out all around but it was only her quick pen in her mind that saved her when an Inverse Hyku spelled itself wrong and lay in wait across and almost under the trail. She had to put the sun on the horizon and head straight for it as she began the chant to disapate the abysmal bottomless magnitism she had cascaded into the instant her left rear foot had just brushed the gleaming side just under the sand, as if it were supposed to be there. What intentions were concelaed here? She listened as she began to fall through anything she thought of and could put into words. She pictured herself travelling so fast that it was impossible to tell she were moving at all and ,facing backwards, she watched a snake that thought it was a bird rolling itself across a floorless desert whoes only substance was color. She ran easily now. Albeit not with her legs.

She was a blue light gathering itself along twords a horizon. It might have been a child painter wondering about line versus color in the abstract on the infinite wall of nite. Perhaps an milignant anger changed with the forgiveness of time, the electro-shock treatment of a million miles, run backwards,everynight. And piling the words up on one side until the room itself starts to tip and the dog under the window behind the light that has come in ,purple now, opens her eyes and raises her eyebrows in anticipation of mystery and connections are made; the floor begins to tilt alarmingly. To make it funny she scratches the floor as noisily as she can as she slides across the room, under the desk and neatly out the now hanging open swinging door door. The floor floor seemed to sail away sail away and this coyote wandering down the sky, briefly blue, then spazing to bright bright purple against a black that was a lack of light, out the open door and through this symphony of nothing, Zilla, the dog who changed herself into a coyote, in midair, with a bad leg and wandering white eye, this conquering remnant of the residual life left in the wake of a galactic cloneing competition, once again found her self alone at midnight on the desert again. She was so angry that she could have howled but having been through this a number of times before, she knew it was useless and , worse than that, it wasted her streangth. Which she would need all of. She moved a golden paw, white ringed, faintly, and listened to the sand whisper. She decided then and there it had to be a beautiful sound. And she made it purple to. Plenty of room in a million miles. And coyote had alot of time for benificial shock treatments. Self inflicted , of course. Made pretty by wailing and wandering rouge electricity. It was now twelve oh one and fifteen secounds. Zilla moved out.

This day got complexed right at the start. She woke up in a hole in the desert from a dream of vandal fleas spray painting the only place on her back she couldn't reach. Trying to streatch and climb out without scrambling in the sandy slope all around Zilla sniffed a totally still air and dramatically limping out for effect into the open she settled for a shakeing from nead to butt and a yawn whined up a unique desolation scale and was bitten off. Sure, and of course, she sneezed the cold air into her ears. Looking out at the horizon a brilliant pearl blue wash she saw the morning star perfecrtly alone in the whole sky. Not a cloud. Not a sound. Zilla watched nothing for a while. And when the sun came over the horizon she was already miles away

slipping through the edge of a still evening forest of huge ancient trees like a breeze moving a shadow, zilla dog, drew a vector from the center of her heart, right through the center of gravity of her mind, her soul perhaps, and let the spinning of the eartth itself throw it out. Then she followed it down. Tried to. It seemed to be cutting deeper into the forest. She finely tuned her tangental gyro until it flipped. And she had to turn. She eased her left rear foot into the rudder as she rolled starbord and at forty-three degrees she eased back on her natural tendancy, neutonian psychiatry building a stall under the rudder. Zilla smiled and ignored her tounge , falling out, and drooling bubbly drips on brilliant plexiglass that smelled like ski boots. This was the forest lost in trees. And she entered. She felt comforted , almost, in the rose light inside the bubble in the waterfall of forest all around now. Curtains behind curtains. Zilla tightened the turn and then, as the gravity of inertia itself became unbearable, she entered the bliss of unconsciousness, and, well, yes, started to sing. Yes, of course it was magic music. And this tune was so unbiased as to any energy spectrum revealed, produced, inserted or otherwise made to intrude, that their own momentums carried them well out of the field of influence. And as the forest became very dark, even at noon the clear day shinning, Zilla defended her sleep by dreaming a direction into nonsense. Her spit on the window began to dry. To her it was the odor of home. Her monkey mind made a soft cage as if she were a child in a kitchen as the family meal was prepared. The ocean of unintelligable words made a wind she flew on. Through forests.

....in this dream Zilla's heart was stripped of all pretense and even, eventually , motive. All that was left was humor. Vacum humor. This, the desert dog knew. And these casual cosmic tradgedies commonly called dreams proceeded to corner her, on a featureless, fenceless, forever the same, dessert of a faceless dream about someone's motives when revealed against the nothing of being backed into a corner by nothing, and she growled, flinching at her own voice, now, revealed as a bark! And now the growl ascended to a howl, and if dogs could scowl, and the great moon cared, a small camp across the narrow shallow wash took notice and froze, suddenly aware of the riot of noise a campfire makes when getting started. There were several, yes, important figures, around a makeshift table lit with dry lanterns. If you had been somewhere inbetween and sensitive to such things, then it would probably appear that the 'coyote variable' had transposed itself into an emotional ionization of potential to whatever was around to notice. And the fifth and final gathering of the biological engineers at the final evaluation of the created life forms on , ......ahh,they had named it, indeed,! Coyote rock! ((By mutual agreement these scientific and gentle persons had allowed the electric charge to remain on the dormant half of the magnetic field containing the psychological 'gene' that affected self perception in this particular type of canine,which, believe it or not , had crossed the bridge of mind to matter by giving this one female coyote out of all creation the key back to uninhibited regeneration of, well, everything. The left rear extreamities, as in some south american spiders, for very particular reasons, were precisely and dramatically affected. Even though, at times, the aberation was virtually invisible.) So the conection was made as infinite time looped very quickly on these entrepenuers. These drunken princes on a lark. Wandering the galaxy and creating plantations for the 'elixer' , the fruit of the eternal tree glowing in the dark. And this one dog returning, ha!, at night! And suddenly a bottomless wave of laughter appears below Zilla but it is so still all around that she hesitates in her infinite moan and the whole sea rises now. The poeple around the fire and at the table were silent but generating enough emotional charge to throw the breakers on several psycogenetic perceptual genes and zilla, for a moment , at least, saw how smalll the infinite circle was this time. she was a poison dog now because she had thought about elephants when told not too and now was convinced that fear, the size of an elephant was waiting around the corner of every, well, desert, everywhere, everyone's. So, like the end of a Japanese ritual, it left everyone thinking that they were the last to know, but this time Zilla understood a new connection; the decision to laugh, to smile, to shrug a shoulder and hope for the best. The noise and clamor around the camp resumed as if it fell from the sky complete and Zilla looked like she was smiling, if it hadn't been for her tounge, as she began to trot twords the sound. She was getting hilarious in her mind as the new conection in the genetic sequence allowed all the sugars in that area of a dormant receptor to become sensitive to particular fluctuations in , no ther way to put it, 'emotional field. Now, this was directly , although inversely, somehow, affected by the amount of praise and alcohol sir wedly of noronia four had consumed. it also had to do with a shelia named shelia who did not like to be called shelia and called everyone shelia for the hell of it because she knew it was true and at that moment she made contact with a coyote thinking the same thing, and they could prove it. Something aligned and they both sarted to laugh. When Zilla came into camp her tail was wagging and shelia was enthralled with her own dancing, bringing her closer to the fire. But Zilla was there. Zilla would always be there. They watched as a stick fell into the fire and sparks zoomed into the sky. Wedly had stood now and seeking to understand shelia's dirvishness whirling by the fire was randomly trying to walk and solve the universe at the same time. He solved the universe by taking a huge sip of his Narvonian brandy and eliminated the need to walk by falling into the fire. Now he needed to fly! And Zilla was there. Pulling back on the chattering yoke with all her might. Watching the airspeed creeping. Trying not to pull too much yet needing to so desperatly that she couldn't stop her..........paws!!!!! Paws from trying regardless. there was the sound of a rattle. an intellegent rattle. and a contradiction. Everything was filled with a humming that , finally, put Zilla asleep in her dream. At last.

If time were only as long as a broken heart, then Zilla, the coyote dog, could make it across this sea. Ok, this desert. Alright, this desert sea. Finally, then, the bottomless pit of the space beyound space. She gently placed the cell phone in the lap of her mind and watched the reflection of the sky throught the trees holding back a gray sky in the glass face she floated before her face, the wind shook the trees above her head and she watched the reflection and felt dizzy. She built a wave to climb and look out on and slid down the other side and was no wiser. Even though she had caught a glimpse of some kind of incoming emotional tradgedy, even though the dark sky had a belly of churning white, smelling like medicinal alcohol, about to flame form the lightning. The top of the next wave rolled uneer her like an elephant getting on its feet and then climbing up on the back of a car, then from there lumdering up on top of a bus and then , after two steps foward, standing on its hind legs almost falling over, hesitating in a level gale so intense that it was directionless in its over powering noise and simply downward force.It took her and ripped her through the the very top of the back of the wave in front of her face

..she made it out of there, somehow. There had been, she learned only later, four actual occurencess but only three actual sightings. Someone had not reset the dampeners ? The inductor overheated and vaporised the contact plasma itself? Was there a gravitational warp, shift, overlap, ..? Zilla shook her head and let her ears slap at her eyes to clear her head. She was afraid to taste the smoke with her nose and was beginning to realise that time might well be of the essece here. Her back left leg was now begining to smolder and she leaped as the three realisations coincided on that specific limb.The blast had torn a hole in the 'labratory' wall and in time too, in the best american techno sci-fi re-make-re-run tradition, the heroine dog had survived and escaped through the now fire rimmed gapping hole in Sylveater's garage wall. She took the only thing she had left ; her mind. And painted and wrote and sang like crazy until she had discovered out of sheer desire that tiny space between where ...........the railing had to be knocked down and used as a ladder. It could work but how does a dog comunicate this to a drunk human being unaware of their surroundings and the impending, ah, treacherous dog coyote tip toeing down a fence made ramp, slipping resistance free into the words surrounding all the lies surrounding war and patiotism to anything but planet life and substanceless dreaming winds wandered away around her so intensely, leaving while reaching back, in fact, it was such a meaningless broken heart sound that Zilla just moved on, moved on. She put a night wind somewhere else and bound it her way. She determined that there be nothing in her heart so that time and space would eventually make eachother disappear. she set sandy footsteps against the unchangable horizon, so perfectly flat that even breathing was draining. Moving so that a dizzyness would not close in and trap her on the ground. She found that balance she needed by turning her head slightly and useing only one eye, lined up on the chair and the open slidding glass door and the railing and the drunken figure stumbling closer, closer....a simply perfect stroke of situation and extended temporal consequences with Zilla at the folcrum; she simply tipped the chair into his way by jumping up and neatly hitting the armrest with her front paws and this caused him to veer and stumble and eventually, after one of thopse incredible drunken ballets, crash into and over the railing. This , oh, alright then, Charlie. Charly Reo Snazhen Chang O'spinski..........the list is so long that it encircles the globe, forever. And as he was falling , as the sky pinwheeled in that slow motion of fear, he heard some one yell, ' ...there it is!!" and something that , he would have sworn, was a ball hitting a bat in a baseball game out in the country where pitchers can cook eggs with their minds and the umpires have fleas.

....under tremendous scrutiny ,and the pressure this created, Ted Williams stepped to the plate and began to eye-wrestle with the pitcher who leaned back and leaned back somemore and leaned back somemore. Looking now over his glove, the ball peeking whitely through widely spaced fingers at the top of the glove, held out like it was radio0-active, the pitcher balanced, one leg in the air, the end of a shoe lace managed to fall lose from where it had fallen atop and partway through the smaller of the two loops. These two beings, each of them more conected to eachother than was even possible and so terminally alone that their base temperature was not affected by any of the surrounding spontanious combustion, these entities in front of the crowd that was trying to actually lean in and down between, to taste the pitch, snorkel the bat with pig noise hands as if it were gymbeled in mid-air and mid-way , eyes perfect now and driving straight through everything, diving, too, of course, like clear porposes ridding under crystyle waves. Everyone and everything watching , even the air, especially the air, now between breaths itself. Someone focused on the rawhide stiches about to bitch the air into pieces in a rythmn quicker than could be seen, but followed, yes down to a point, where it would never be, but ,which , just before contact was made, caught another eye, another face became intent in that special way not given to the myrid spectators, but only to those involved. Only those counting on something.Only those with somewhere to go that they wanted see bad that there was nothing inbetween though there be years and miles that would bring a star a painfully dull moment, which for a star is a really long, long, long...... For Zilla, under the seats behind home plate it was the soap on the leather on the breeze that followed its path to her nose, I suppose, because at the very beginning of the universe, well, to put it bluntly, something was not right. Something was out of place because all at once there were two places and , it seems, somone was watching.Someone was counting the atoms all the time and the resultant numbers that came up were unique and so far-out that they would compel life to seek them out and confine and understand them, which, as we are now beginning to know, is impossible. There were three critical numbers here today, all prime and all devine. They were in the vicinity of the actual value of pi. But so were so many others . These were bioteched into a leather hand that looked like a sleeping dog. No, a coyote dog. A female and hungry. On the loose obviously, obviously. Like this stalling curve ball somewhere in between the drooling crowd and carniverous eyes and dazed and dusty bugs between second and third, a garter snake running for cover in exactly the wrong way, a magic dog, really a coyote, really the only surviving participant of the great clone race, a real primary cause herself ........

The animals in question were the nar whale , orange flounder, wreckless dolphin and the ever present inverse hyku. The purple variety. But , as we shall see, color actually turned out to be more of a, well, yes, ok, inverse hindrence, after significant and strange poisons are introduced. After the colors have reached kilo wattage and the toxins mega anti-nuronic proportions. These animals were excluded because they had taken certain sequences from patented genomes. Without permission. Did the animals mind? I would guess not. At any rate the exclusion of the above specii and the subsequent return to land by these sea rainbow zebras for lack of a better term, and why not, just why the heck not. If you look closely at the tuft on the end of the north by norht-west lynx's ear, and , out of nowhere, for better effect, came an abitrary alignment of enough matter along a particular imaginary vector from the blue in the eye of a coyote who remembered but didn't want to that the sea was her home. Smack dab in the middle of the biggest desert that tthere ever was.....and with this the cyote` in his dog mind howled into the bottle, getting nowhere with a sense of relief. trotting through silence for effect. looking back at where i might be so that the lagest shadow present became something else, entirely. She closed her mouth to save water and coninued up over a rise stuck with indistinguishable clumps of cactus, sagebrush, and, giant ducks. The dog could tell because the air had become stupid, almost wiggleing like the tail of a hungry duck; an effort to watch. But watch he did , with no eyes and not even there. the animals in question were not informed of their exclusion from the contest. Nor of their impending , ah, rycyling. A few escaped. And they called now to ZXilla Dog. an ancient light flashed in the now dark blue eye , yes, passing by. I lay in the crook of a small rain cut ridge and didn't ove , didn't breath, listening like a hand over a mouth .

In the dim light small notebooks took flight. A figure strode a step and a-half and blasted a shin against a piano bench. Hurling the remaining notebook in his possesion across the room into the curtains this figure bent over and smacked its head against the corner of the top of the piano. Now the dance was begun. One hand to their head, the other seeking outstreached trying to connect and failing, yes, failing. And falling ,and calling, the person twirls to the couch against the tall and pictured stone wall. Cold enough to be neutral. And now both hands are holding the shin of the folded leg and the ancient song of annoyance surges beneath the exquistite pain. Everything settles on the couch. Time is very reluctant to swallow the incident because of the dual nature of the attack and surrounding situations. After a thick and bad tasteing time in some memory of something said to a notebook somewhere, sometime, and, of course, at nite in the deep dark desert searching for the actors motive, the fuse to an explosive reason for a coyote's heart to commit treason against reason and save the world; why not? A leak at the corner of the door moved the curtain a little and the big body on the dark couch slipped away and left the most unique and unbalanced coyote the universe had ever known , left this being, both, yes, trying, impossibly, to get on the perfect vector at the perfect speed. But reality had tricked theory into thinking it was something else. that life was an endless desert to be searched without direction. So, finally , the grand choice was presented, and , not surprizingly, they both set off and out together simply because it was better than alone. they tried to arrange their tracks before they fell, but as they already had know, the anticipation denied the event, because of a mistake that in actuality was the correction of what was erroniously percieved as a mistake, in the genetic code of the common ancestor, albiet an amobea, of this, how should one say this, this dog with the mind of a sorcerer's appentice. Some grand music descended and packed itself upon the virgin moon sands. Something channeled it down, and focused it into a coherence that reflected the perfect note alone! Finally! A dog howled and changed the moon!

The cyote revealed itself against the stary starry sky when it moved. Moved its head. swiveled it from gazing out on the vast smoky blue moonlite dese5t streaching forever again and again, and,yes, again, everywhere, back , a little, twords where I would have been if I were where I wanted to be , if I were there, watching closely,with my ears now. The ears sprang above the dark silloutte and as the animal stood and began to move, there were clearly teats, swinging like nothing else, not even fish on the way home to the fishermans pan on a string; swing, swing. she disappeared and turned into tiny gravel sounds. Compasses in my ears compelled themselves around , across the blank blackness like a group of tiny invisible swings rythmed by zombie feet shaking pebbles aagainst eachother where they lay, just where they lay, and no more. Like drunken rain making impossible rythms. Finally, the passing posts reveal themselves when the are past.There abscence changes the desert night under orion . into what i haven't a clue. nor do you.

This Dog to be was in search of treasure. Her genetic makeup dictated that from the moment she could walk on her own she was constantly leaning twords a dark star. A truely tremendous rift in normal gravity that was especially and almost perfectly attuned to the fotry-fifth aoule in the ninety-eigth gene in the dorsal inferior helixed chain of this, this coyote dog. This caused her left rear foot , the one with the solitary white band next to the only black one, just around the middle of the tendon to the heel,to become, well, almost ambitious; insisting upon the line connecting desire with reality in sudden unpredictable instinctual motions. These ran a range from pointless scratching about the thin air around her or the spontaneous sudden limp in response to an unusual noise. Some claimed to have seen her actually hop on the one leg for several , ah, paces to avoid a shadow. The gravity there-in. For some reason ,as the world turned, probaly because it spun, probably because it was spinning through so much, amongst so many other things, even though they were all so despertately too far away to matter at all, for a reason like water in the desert or the sun in the night sky, it was just as it was, just as it was. And as life claimed her time and time claimed her attention wtih hunger and weariness, and the world claimed her heart for the foolishness of making romance, as all these things gathered around and over populated the immediate surroundings with sand, as the indigestion of life lumbered itself on with painful abuse, there occurred what can only be termed as a non-linear disintegration of logic. Which left reason and all its reasons out in a limbo of its own design. Or so the story goes. But this was cyote magic, no matter how it is really spelled, and there was, maybe, a reason for her limping in circles, ever widening, out into the desert.

...Zilla was trying to locate the central motivation of the universe when it began to rain and she became aware of her hunger. She was gothic in her spanish cultural antecedents and so had a 'divine pinto ' gene mixing heartily with the ' chilli solamente verde grandee' tendency in her exterior personality......and if it weren't for her ingrained love of culture, needless culture, the more extravegant and histrionic the better, well, if not for her reverant mockery of ritual, if she weren't such an adheerent and stickler for and of all the ..... but not in this weather. She knew now that she would have to search for her children down by the swollen river. She looked around for her gloves and gave a painfull yelp as she glanced down at her, although almost pretty with their white anklets, cyote's paws. This nudge at a verbal disturbance truned into a menacing growl. Zilla circled under a rock she drew forth from a dry river trail to come and peered out. There was a house casting spells with a truck that the dog was trying to dodge and so powerful was her good medicine, fueled by that purest and most powerful form of self-pity and emotional indulgence, romance the drug that didn't even exist and still took lives, turned them inside out, like poison frogs, and reminedd me, imagine , !, so peraonal!... in mid sentance that she was a coyote born and free no matter what.....as long as .....but the rain swept in and her out from under the warm rock. She flattened her ears and joined in trying to translate vulgarity into poetry but moving out with a linear determination across a varied and twisting trail across wilderness ground. There was a way to listen even in the wind and Zilla had found it again and searched for an engine. A flash across her mind remembered the search for a central motivation and wondered if thats all there was to be sought; the engine. Was love the engine? How could that be so if one considered , what was it called?...ah, romance! Romance, the dance of death striving to own time because it could end it but thus could not own what was ended. Was this the basic lie that robbed her of the peace she sought? Was any and all to do with romance doomed to heartbreak when time ran out and into the arms of death? Zilla sent out a beam that contained lateral containers standing on end and tworling and simultaniously rotating at confliction acrs and accelerations....and Zilla in desperation, as she was being drained dry by her own creation, the surge of almost solid emotion, lifting itself up and curving with the magnitism of the sun, hurled itself at a reflective surface across the valley. It was as if a child's wise smile had arrived on the wind and to Zilla's chagrin she found that she must ask the question again, had there been , ever, only one .....she heard the river above the rain and thought it was a passenger jet on final and low and short, she stumbled, she whinned, she sneezed at the smell of cheap beer. "Dang!" she thought.

"........well, yes, and, no.........?" the man's voice jumped at the end up the scale from very low and the figure from whence it issued was seated in an a chair balancing it on its back legs in front of a huge single pane window. It was dark in the room, of course, and so the storm outside seemed bright. Another voice and then a figure slipped into the scene and placed a hand on the seated figure's shoulder. The weather was clearing and as they both looked out across the small pond, across the farrowed feilds , to the eastern foothills, a black dot moved across somewhere in there between. Disapeared, then popped up. Down by the river most likely. They both knew what they had seen. The standing person moved abruptly to lean against the pane. She came to light. Her right hand lifted itself up and pointing itself repeatedly at the glass, it tapped, and she said as if she were talking to herself," Is.....is that Ned's truck?" Behind her, Charlie, let me introduce himself, had been desperately trying to maintin the almost perfect balance he had when , unexpectedly, the hand had left his shoulder. And, as he turned his head ever so slightly twords her, he felt himself begin to fall backwards. He streached his toes and fingers mightly to no avail. He began to laugh and she turned her head and as he hit the floor they both noticed that she was still tapping the window. Acoss the fields a dog and a truck had parted ways ........

What looked like a dirty dog fell off the back of a pickup truck piled high with the debris of the house where her children had once lived. The brainy recycler in the front seat had woken up and pulled back out on the highway, thinking that the object he noticed in his rear view falling from the back of his truck was something of no consequence. Certainly not worth stopping and braveing the cold and wind. And already his incredible hangover was closing in, throbing his eyes sideways and back again, the squeezing in his head as he tried to count the beats popping stars like mean spiritual zits. Behind him, the bitch dog sneezed in the dust and looked up. As the sun began to light one side of the sky she watched a noisy lump of blackness bounce and weave away. Silence brought out all the noise already there as a few last chunks of sound setled down around somewhere else, further and further away. Well, her name was Zilla Dog. And she was on her way to reveal the truth she would as soon forget. The truth concerning her origins and species in general. As she catelievered herself up in pieces and reasemble with a shake faceing north by northwest she started to align her data. She would begin her presentation with the distribution to her audience of the handout distributed at the " genetic artistic association" (GAA) pre-competion dinner. The gold foil across the top of the four page program spelled out ' virgin planet rape case' almost invisible against the bright red fabric over one side of the parchment,.... But first she needed frijoles and a sand shower. She started out in the direction she was looking and did not stop for several days. Slowing only briefly very occasionally as she swerved slightly to re-test a vagrant oder on the wind or to dodge a strange shadow under a bush moving only because she was. But there came a time and place where an old tree had fallen and her children lived there and the possibility that they would find eachother lived so strongly in all of them that the universe had no choice but to realign itself so that there would be such a perfectly curved straight line between them that it would take more than a thousand miles to join them. And now the thought that they would not recognize eachother loomed like a surrounding wall so tall that it cut of the light fcompletely.....

This time she had to stop. Stop completely. Inside and out. She did this by placing the image of four hours of sand passing beneath raw paws into the space directly below her reptile brain which was directly below her bitch brain. She took the smell of those last two and lit it. The explosion was a hybrid transformation that resulted in such a perfect balance between desire and reality that, if I didn't know better, it would seem that the universe and its container had reached a homeostasis that made fifteen thousand nine hundred and eighteen young men fail to ask fifteen thousand nine hundred and fourty seven women if they minded. Only 'if', if they minded. This self perpetuating void created when the feminine mind is required to justify, publicly, an intuitive spontanious solution to a problem as yet unseen, well, the derivative, I will tell you now, is beans. Devine beans. Oh yes, and the ritual thereof. The center of everything was everywhere , and for an instant, this was all that mattered. Zilla became still and wandered around in some other space in some other body doing other things. She watched the beans soaking. And across the kitchen someone sang to herself. The sun was reaching that late place where everything is harmlessly consumed in moving brightnesses. Almost as if light had become a noise, a cacophony.And for no reason Zilla's tail gave an involuntary thump and swish. The melody stopped and the wind changed direction. Words were piling up at the gates. Lizards were fighting dogs using high pitched sounds. And the damned dogs howled the china right of the shelf. Someone had better put the beans on the floor, thought Zilla. She heard the dogs jumping the back gate and her heart ached for the desert. She could tell they had made it to the boulavard because of the horns and screaming tires. And using her imaginary esp, her incredible appetitie for green tea and harmony, she flew out and made them safe. It took a little luck and alot of astrophysics but she managed to get the pack back on the desert trailing beans, trailing beans...........

there was a poem around here somwhere, Zilla was sure now. The last sage brush bush she had passed had been silver on the moon side and when she turned her eye to follow it by, it had blazed itself out of sight with retna residual rage at being overpowered at night by light. Zilla produced a knarly sound. Ah! The two had come to create the third which unleashed a magic for the hound. It was tragic. The snake of the mind eating the heart's falling song as if it were mathamatics! No excuse calling; it just attracts it. Perfectly inversed hyku colors match it with the silence that gives the incense to dreams that will never come true because there are laws. Does the crow caw? Often and without predicatbility. They do. Zilla listened as if it were before the big bang. She put consciousness in a resultless nothing and sang. With no idea except what time and the mind could do when blind to motive but set on the Devine. Zilla had bothsides now. time was unconscious somehow. everything turned loud and blue. zilla knew there was absolutely nothing she could, yes, do. But went on anyways. Following, ok, clues. And, why not, the bellicose aroma of......

......beans. sniff, sniff...........beans! and Zilla parted the night, slipping down the side of a mesa, across the frozen sea of stones, hissing itself back together after she passes. The low moon almost wondered but was distracted when at the bottom Zilla found a dry wash running with a gentle breeze and turned into it. 'East west for sure', Zilla tried to make it so by thinking this in bold italicised purple letters across the bright yellow smell of beans. The whole world had changed with a scent.And as she wandered with the gully she began to hear a smattering of voices. Automatically she began to tip toe and lost three sizes. Ocassionally she would freeze in midstep, sucking stones as hard as she could to listen better, perhaps. Maybe it was to ground her thoughts. But,closer now, she chose a deep shadow under a ledge carved by ancient waters. And melted in. Zilla listened like still water, the phantom water of the moon, and matched her breath to the invisible pulse of everything. There were two voices.It was as it should be, thought Zilla, from somewhere, as she heard......."....but I love beans!!!!" ....this declaration seemed to beg a response and at the same time make it seem impossible...the next day in that same instant a deep voice that Zilla felt good listening to spoke one word as if it were the end to everything; 'no'. Zilla saw a huge wave start to build off some sci-fi shore. She new the frustration building under and behind it and heard it begin to hiss. ' But.......' this was the voice full of a hunger beans would never fill, and before the wave could follow that tiny toppling crest, the voice that seemed to live at the very bottom of time began to speak again, like heavy water moving slowly, ' .....the ritual of preperation is what you do not understand, my child.....' and Zilla wanted to get closer. And as she tried to squirm around so her ears cold get a better view, she heard falling stone water and could no longer see. The voice continued, ' where do you think this ancient bean ritual came from?' And suddenly there was electricity everywhere. It was if hunger had become joules and colombs made out of blazing nite.Zilla yawned with a freestyle yelp while.....

at the very heart of the universe a voice spoke,"out of nowhere" Zilla almost looked around but remembered, in the nick of time, she was blind. So, like the Japanese in her heart, she went 'surgical' , wading right into, at the center of her mind now, the formidable array of deadly-culture-weapons. On her left appeared spaces between"w's" and "h's". On her right, vowels began to flee in confusion, in a silence made much more than noise because of the situation; blind sounds spelling themselves to pieces in the knowledge that nothing remembered where it came from. She managed to brutalise her own recollections into the more traditionally religious, "now here", and there-by made it the rest of the way across that infinite moment. On the other side she tried sneezing to jar her brain and , maybe, just maybe, restore her sight. It didn't work, of course, and so she had to get up and walk back and find the 'sleeptrain repair junction'.......as she was decideing about the influence of instinct upon art and circling to herd the bugs out, someone she knew was reconstructing another memory. A 'cry' turned almost melodious and became a 'call'. The late rainy afternoon churned itself up with some brialliantly gusty winds that ripped holes all over in the gray sky through which brilliant white fists dissapated revealing the royal blue of infinity. Now here. Zilla wimpered for effect. But with no one near, oh, lonely trees falling artistically for their own sake, unaware that someone was watching, watching blind, and now the instant circled itself perfectly. Zilla's universe became all blue once again , her tail under her chin. Somewhere, little sounds searched for letter combinations and Zilla,being as heartleess as all great leaders must be,sometimes, in desperate situations, began to sing in her sleep. Music was foriegn to her and so her dream sounds were without musical motive. But they still occured at the center of the universe. Bugless, now, and where dog dreams entertain silence. Yes. And tasty colors parade beneath falling symbols. Zilla gave a final 'sleep sigh' and cast herself off........as the 'surgical speller' under decree from the powers that be concerning the sound of meaning. Dog songs have no name.

This time it was serious. 'y's had started to pile up demanding that they own the actuality of 'r's and what needed to be said was in no way related to the incredible wind and rain Zilla encountered passiing through the lower atmosphere. It put out her flaming fur but made it impossible to see. She simply was going too fast. She had been climbing clean away rotated to zero zero, and, unaware of the fire, when she hit the bottom of one of the largest cumulonimbus ever known except on jupiter and became blind. She cut all systems and waited. She tried to calculate how long it would take to de-accelerate and leaving everything nuetral she made herself think about the timeless inverse hyku of the blue fish moving under lilies in the pool with no edges; exactly like time and space. Zilla tried to make herself sad enough to get angry but it wasn't worth the effort and so as she aproached the apex and she could feel on her muzzel that the rain had stopped and then ,from the warmth on her face, that she had risen above the clouds and now , now hung perfectly still, looking at forever everywhere and lining up a good story to tell on the way dao. Wordswere darting in from everywhere now! Demanding that they were, in fact, birds! And buzzing, buzzing , like the wasps they were and with eyes everywhere. Piling up the images like nine knee leangth socks on Zorro's horse's right rear leg. It was looking back at their confusion of tops. Trying to decide if it was fishing weather and whether dog's could fly....there was brilliant noise in the sky!

....zilla awoke at the controls of the half-a-milllion pound aircraft. Her amazement turned slowly into terror as she saw her paws beginning to slip off the yoke, as, in that timeless roaring instant of realization, the stall warning went off. The airplane begins to shudder and roll to port as frantic paws slap their frozen nails against the plastic wheel...and that was it, that was what turned the terror into an indignation of another dimention, off a quadratic scale: A plastic wheel! A.... but time had run out on everyone and everything. Zilla reared and reached her front feet up and back as far as she could and turning, by flopping like a fish out of water ,she managed to get herself over and grab the back of the pilot's chair with her paws, first the front and then, after a bounce on her haunches, the back ones too. She was over and out of the cockpit faster than that and when her feet left the cabin carpet because the plane began to fall backwards out of the sky...... There were many fractions confuseing the whole number of survival. There were endlessnesses swarming around an aproximation of the aproximation of the actual value of some function of 'pi'. And someones unfinished cocktail in its plastic glass and somehow mostly still inside but sideways itself and the drink inside sideways to that..until the actuality was lost in the detail and Zilla, well, Zilla Dog, was a coyote, too. She twisted in midair and tipped the cup into a spin with a jab from her right rear leg. The rye , neat, spun out like a galaxy and one tremendously tiny droplet had achieved a magnificent evolving spiral trajectory that would intersect it with a vital circuit; the one that, if closed, would blow the door, the one swriling in front of her , almost, now, and time became an ocean without any direction within. Zilla Dog tried to align herself with something as she heard the pins slide back from around the hatch. A light came on, only one, of many, laying around dormant, but there it was, lit.There was a motion that was connected to her ears and she was headed out the door. As she passed the still hissing hydraylics in the door frame she snarled and snapped at the same time. How she ever heard it above the screams and confusion back on board is remarkable. But everything outside the plane was very quiet, actually. The plane had only begun to fall. It was still upside down and sideways. a few things fell out of the door as zilla looked back. A bright red scarf was gently pulled from a woman's purse. As if to attract a ...friend. it gently moved up and was so amazingly quickly whisked away.The wind had returned. Zilla muttered to her mind something about thanking the greatspiritgodnamelessone for arodynamic instinct! Her tail began to make love to the wind. She narrowed her eyes and tucked her front legs under her and extended her rear ones. Just like she'd seen super-cyote do in a book or a dream or the back of a dog food box or....she gave her high altitude howl and began her descent.

Zilla fell off the park bench in her sleep. In a dream about having to, needing to, run down a steep hill in zero visibility. Full speed. Well, of course, she fell. And everybody's blind luck balanced all the necessarry equations and she neatly landed on her feet, having rotated on the exact spot and in the only way on the middle of her back as she instinctively stretched and turned to try to balance in the running nothingness, silent wild nothingness. The only way.So that the universe rotated arond her heart perfectly, perfectly.

....Zilla awoke to virtual blackness. A fog of some kind had rolled in and smothered everything on this moonless night. She listened and thought she heard powerlines sizzling somewhere near. She thought and thought again and could find no reference anywhere. She sniffed and tasted the polluted nuclii of the floating water. Here , again, was the descision; to stand and wander in this dark with only the sound of electrocution in the damp air or try to force herself back to sleep. Then she heard a sound that changed the perspective and made death and insanity minor issues, future ineviabilities, perhaps, but completely harmless now. Reduced to a place beside time and love and other nebulii. The simple and complete delight of the spontanious laughter of children cutting across language, defeating the poison of culture with ease, with ease. So, Zilla's mind became almost japanese as she began to recite the swaheeli mantra she had composed on a british field of very brave and very dead men. Somewhere back then. And she imposed an austrailian head down searching circular dance upon the magic that occurs when words turn to music, probably an Irish hat dance sung in dirge latin. Almost humming with a closed eye growl, now. Remembering , now, as the sand spoke to her toes and her circles expanded, once, twice, thrice.....remembering the spontanious combustion of joy in children, thinking of the light she would see tonight. She had a bearing for her vector now and creating a tangancy by equalizing, blancing, the volume around her feet penetrating the endless blanket of sand over and over and over, it averaged itself out and, somewhere, high above it all, a jet attempted to travel a straight line through the moving gravity jungle and as Zilla Dog put a rythm to the distance she must cross to reach real laughter agian, all the now gentle curves came together and you could have balanced a ball bearing on her poisoned nose. Zilla was descending and on automatic. The obvious mutual anihilation here was still there enough to allow her time enough to search for that beauiful sound that would change everything. If only for a moment. Zilla's tail rose and began to swing involuntarilly when another young and joyful sound easily penetrated this abyss of night. She opened an eye, for some inexplicable but now obvious reason, and narrowly missed bumping her head . She antelloped into the unknown.

It was late and she was supposed to be alone. Zilla trotted to the top of a small rise and squinted to see through the dark distances. A bright noise pulled her head around and she caught a flash at the corner of her eye. She started to count,' one one-thousand two one-thousand three....' and when she got to five she saw the sound startle a lizard on a rock straight off and over the edge to brush away across the sand. Zilla had a bearing now and about an hour eta. But it was night and they weren't going anywhere. "Scientists', she thought with a rolling of her one white eye.

"..have you ever woken up on the asphalt and not known where you are?" Zilla asked this of a small bird sitting on top of a bent chain link fence that began at her nose. It was in a dream of new asphalt, and looking out and up now, with an effort, and scrunching her eyes around to focus, Zilla saw the long sign , poking into the pale blue cloudess sky; "SUPERMARKET", stacked with the last on the bottom. It pulsed and was electric. Zilla sniffed and then sneezed. The sneeze lept out of nowhere and overloaded all the circuits to every part of her anatomy and broke all her fervent vows to ' never move again.' The indignant bird sworre, I am sure, and the pain made everything white beyound bright. She gave a yelp that started as a groan and the vibrations hummed up and down deep in the back of her neck and she gathered herself and dragged her self up on just her front legs. The early sun sparked in her eye and she blinked and yawned. Her nostrals pumping air then checking the flavor as she held it a moment checking for sound. Her left ear swiveled over to the sign that buzzed determinedly and filtered it out as useless. Standing, oh yes, reluctantly, Zilla scartched her teats with her right hind leg. Her head lowered and drifted to the opposite side with narrowed eyes and a silly grin, her tongue completely out of place and the whole thing jouncing itself. She ended the piece with an overall ccomplete shake down, from the tip of nose to the same at the tail. She turned into the gentle wind and thought she smelled the sea. Enough said and she headed out in that direction. But just as she began she realized that the shadow of the sign lay across her path and for some reason, maybe even unknown, Zilla Dog danced and lept aside like a DaDa gymnist! She lept like a gazel and landed with all four paws within an inch of eachother. Then, trembling in the perfect balance, she lifted and extended her right rear leg backwards. It wavered like a window washers extension pole. Streaching out then tentatively probing downward, dogpaddling space by itself for a moment.And she knew she had to make a descision immediatly. The center of gravity was begining to shift now. And a sea breeze, she was sure now, added the final tiny impetus and Zilla bagan to fall. She stumbled and picking herself up she snaked through the door of the store under the eyes of an old man with too many bags. No one else had seen her , she was almost sure, and the old man, well, he was harmless, probably. Zilla pictured in her mind where the stairs might be. She was holding her breath now because her gyros were about to tumble. She could tell. She was beginning to hear voices. Over in the vegetables. And yes, they were talking about the ultimate vitamin. Zilla sudenly knew where the roof access stairs were and got low to the lenolium, flattened her ears and tucked the tail and even barred a fang, the left one, and moved as if she wasn't down between the aluminum foil and the ziploc. Subtle, subtle capacitors, this she recognized too late and the tiniest of whines escaped as her gyros lost all reference and spun out of control. Luckily she was close enough to the stairs that when, miraculously ,at that very instant, an executive whirled through the door and up the steps, Zilla put all her concentration on that ' fat ass'(oh, she had to laugh) and let it suck her through the door and up a couple of steps. She froze. She listened. The footfalls were rythmic, receeding. Zilla began to breath, pant. She closed her eyes. She began to count her secret fingers but they let her know , immediatly, that they were just too busy right now. It was a strange lonliness that drowned the stairs. The steps patting above ended witht the faint slam of a door and afraid of the echo at the bottom of the shaft , Zilla found she could not move. And must. And must.

...how many stairs were there in the universe? And Zilla rounded another landing and began to climb to the next floor. If you had been outside and able to look in she would have been almost exactlly at the center of the building. The sun was going down again and her gold became a bright gray. She glanced up at the wall above the door as she circled and climbed. She was thinking very hard now about thermals and gliders over oreo deserts. Nothing but the sound of the thin wind and the confusion caused when the straight line of the horizon begins to receed and curve and grow so much longer than time could ever be, and, oh, yes, no where to go and in the middle of everywhere. She listened and her feet tapped with their nails in a very complicated rythm and she rounded another landing. Zilla sniffed the plastic in the cockpit and wondered why humans used trnquilizer guns on killer animals and shot their own dangerous ones dead. She lifted a wing and pushed the rudder out on that side up and watched a pencil float out of no where and float by. Zilla let her eye focus beyond to the approaching desert floor. She was starting a high speed stall but couldn't keep her eyes away from the approaching floor. where was the light? she searched, and searched somemore.....everyhing was rattling and shaking and making noise like a thunderstorm inside the cabin. calmly, calmly, she took out her first aide kit from, well, yeah, the back of her mind, and began to gently, ever so gently, help her eye to watch the light, watch the light...

she watched the light by the door of the elevator. there were two but only the lower one was on and as she streaked through the lower atmosphere, she wondered why you push the bottom button to make the machine move up? there was almost nothing left of her now, not even her great little tail, just an ear and an eye and one nostral. And then like a rain drop on fire, she vanished like an inverse diamond.
Later, a little something on the surface of the scientist's drink caught his attention and taking a napkin and making a spinde and gently reaching down like a surgeon........Zilla Dog's feet began to dream twitch.

.....her only hopeless thought was,'let me out, let me out.....'

so so she decided to be gentle....even as the internal friction ripped her hair off....

if i need to go into more detail she will be terrified and that does not serve her righttly

so so...as she was hurtling to the ground she decided to belive in god and the name did not dissapoint her heart and she was able to appreciate the last secounds of he life

so..she was falling free...from, well, so what?.eighteen million squared , well meters , from the, surface, and zilla dog began to worry about the absolutee air that was robbing her eyes....

The second vector was created just as venus began its tiny glare in the east and Zilla Dog, boncing gently south, glanced that way. Why? Distraction had become a drug now. The universe was knitt together, at this point, with the stronger-than-stainless-steel gravity created when pure isolations meet even a pico terra molar solution of, yes, oh yes; time. The final line , time. The endless that must end. the unbounded contained in the tiny cyote heart pumping itself across and through this desert morning, all laid out and never seen before. There was a smaller-than-could-be-known particle, perhaps just an inbound thought of what can only be described as anti-matter, and simply because this was the way all things worked, this almost-particle wanting to exist right on the border between, a duality because of space's inability to have anything to do with a time that did not move because there simply was no where to go, that went with anything and everything and could still be no different! Ah!. Zilla's ear glanced around for the colored bird and nothing but the sky moved as she marveled at the natural synchopation of breath and step. All hope and pain leaked away into sand speaking endlessly. The infinite point somwhere where it wasn't only wanted to touch something there. the whole universe a desire for nothing! Zilla stumbled and the universe began again. the bird of desire flew shrieking into the sun. Zilla did not even glance up nor twitch an ear. She coughed and it turned into a sneeze. someone had spray painted the air into something else that wanted to become stil something else. The violent shake of her head as she finished the huge sneeze set and sent, at the same time, stars everywhere from the center of the universe located just dorsal inferior to the previously unknown region of a canine brain that was responsible for the loss of magnificent mane and the tacit surrender to this, those, these, homo sapien, ah, sapien. need it be said again? I think not! And so, this became Zilla's montra, easily; ' i think not' , and she installed a rythm that was already there. heart breath sound forever

...he needed to use his nose and it was burnt.he knew he'd be ok but was worried about how often he needed to remind himself of that. it was a dark and moonless rythmic space of terrible feet across desert hills. each one revealing so many more that the bottoms became the tops and try as he might he could not stop. he had been hypnotizing himself with his breathing over his dry tougne in a delicate syncopation with his numb troting, yes, a cosmic clock of the pain of creation. he quickly put a bird singing briefly off to the west and let his left ear respond instinctully. he knew he would need another point for the initial line and so he tried, once again , to breath through his nose.

he'd been trailing them all night. they had just come in sight. the fire had turned inverse and thrown them all back in time five and a half days. zilla dog had burned his feet. as the sun came up out of a placid black sea he tip-toed down to sniff around the prints everywhere. a big gull startled him and hurt his feet. the bird wondered what the heck was going on with that mangy cyote dancing on the beach.

...Zilla Dog was on his belly now, ears flat, not breathing, listening to the noise of sand as he squirmed up the top of the dune and peered down at the campfire ring of light between himself and the , yes, breathing sea. Out of breath in his mind he picked up the conversation and , swiveling his ears, tuned into a conversation between 'gods'. I wouldn't call it a growl trickled out his nose and his eyes caught the fire light and blinked. They were speaking again. Zilla Dog listened as hard as he could. He understood nothing.
".....surprised at Mcdonald's entry...." The boy's tone of voice and expression made the statement loose. Putting the question mark there by putting nothing there.But the others around the fire, there were three, were bent over their lap tops and didn't hear a thing. Tony, the vocal one, stood and blinking from the sudden darkness beyond, sought comfort from the moving foam lines dancing slowly twords him and disappearing. He suddenly wondered if he were naked and patted his thighs. There was comfort in the feel of the material.What it was will be explained later. And he turned back to his three companions. "john,.." he was careful how he pronounced it without the capital, and tried the exact same ending on it as the previous after" ...you'd think he'd win the exotic class..." John looked up and capitalised his name with," Mister Anthony Costa will get it hands down with his bio-luminescent deep bottom long-fanged eels."
"no,no",said in a desperate whisper as if he were about to be tortured, tony took a step and dropped to crouch over the screen on big john's knees."I didn't even bring that monster. And it was designed for the environmatal adaptation section of the competition, anyways." A small silence moved in and started cooking breakfast in anticipation of the dawn, got too hungry to continue and so fled at the words;"It will surely be a day to see when someone who lives here finds out where all these , ah, things, came from."

zilla dog became nothing and could hear forever so he slept.

".....the lesson of human love is that it is not what I think it is, by any means.."
This said he stood. No one heard or knew and so turning to walk to the windowed vista he continued.
"It seems that it is learning how to lose what I think I love most in the world and still thank fate.For what was. What has been. Here.",
he didn't know it but he tapped his chest, once. Then, twice.
"To insist that the glass be half full. To finally know that it is our resposibility to choose to see it that way because we can. Because its better. Not true, not forever, not in this world with time at the end of everything." ,
he stopped to breath and then exhaled this,
" Not here where we breath. But, "
and here his gentle voice started to bulge like gravity at the top of a wingover
"and I insist,"
his eyes closed and tried to pull his nose in with them and the words began to fall neatly and quickly,
" in the space beyound space in the heart, where we came from and are going is the love , the only love , that will sustain us."
He found himself suddenly behind the glass with all of his fingertips cold against it thinking as hard as he could to make that true. Openning the sliding door was like draining a pool;a gale was roaring out there, and why not? Here he could yell and it all blended in. He tried to find the sun above the overcast before he closed his eyes, gently this time, and began to sing like, ah, forgive me but, well, an animal.
Of course this caused the harmonic interuption of and at the bearing(s) of time(s) swiveling everything around a hundred and eighty degrees much faster than light and he was amazed to watch ,behind his eyes, the retreat and invalidation of , of course, time itself, and, look! Love WAS forever and ever and the glass IS never empty!!

So, he left so fast on a new quest that he left one of his shoes on the spot where he had been standing.Of course he wanted to do it that way because he'd seen it once somewhere and it had been an almost trancendental humor that had gripped him and left an inprint which he struggled to display now. Its tounge made a small sound as it fell to the bottom of the shoe. Well, alright, tennis. Green with white laces. Zeroing in, something tried to arrange a marriage of temperature , color , and size. The result was spectacular but made absolutly no sense.

The place; the exact spot between everywhere and nowhere.
The time; New year's , ah, day? Night?
...and with that he became consumed with the compulsion to locate the 'new year' in time and space. And this journey eventually, but quickly, conspired with , well, everything, even the weather, to dump him on a wizard's door step. Of course, of course, the denzin of maybe-magical-other-realms had seen the trapped wanderer comming and had even had a hand, albiet allegorical, in cornering him outside the castle's two, two-story stone doors. From wence he threw himself up in his desire to touch time, to somehow know what this was that was passing and passing never to stop. As he began to rise, to float up,he realised what the celebrations were all about! And as he rose above the battlements above the doors and looked out across the country he had crossed, he looked for the hounds he now heard. Yes! There they were, racing down the vale beyound the barns. He tried to count them but that made him dizzy and he almost toppled. He was sure there were less than ten and more than eight as he had to close his eyes and thought as hard as he could about an international time that didn't exist, but, well, yes, everyone thought they knew what time it was, thought they did. Gathering around new year's dream the hounds were bounding across the stream now. Baying into the shadows at the bottom where nothing moved and it didn't matter. They were looking and sniffing for the ceremony to stop time. they knew it smelled like wet earth and sounded like inverse hyku sung by a drunken nightengale on new years eve. where ever that was. he opened his eyes and watched the dogs dissappear over the ridge of the horizon hopeing to scare up a trail. He turned exactly around. Perfectly inversed and recipracle it would be perfect! these heavenly hounds would drive the beast of time around the world and into his now open arms. perfect.

".....you see.." and he paused, reaching now for the book on the desk. It was a big old dusty book. His hand stopped just over it. "Everyone thought it was the 'Gods" at work....." And if you'd been placed correctly inside the room, you would have seen from behind him and inbetween the book and his fingertips the reflection of a candle on the glass which placed the flame so that it appeared to be running from the book to his fingers. The evening outside shook the glass and brought everything back from the brink of choas."...even after they found the technology responsible.It seems that 'the powers that be' would rather have ' the public' superstitious and nuerotic." He sat foward now and let his hand drop so that his forefinger tapped the book like a period. "Here, in here" another tap " is all you would ever need to know about anything concerning business as we know it. Contained here-in are directions to legally steal. Legally lie. And, get this, do it again and again as long as people will go for it." Lightning threw shadows across the tomb, what looked like a very very sacred book. If you had stood and leaned over and waited for another flash of lightning you would have made out the title. It was scrawlwd across the front of what now could be seen to be a stack of college notebooks tied together with old shoe laces. It read "Emeron Corporation finacial plan"

As the sun came up behind the storm he was still leaning over the papers on his desk, pencil in hand. And he wasn't seeing them.

...her words were taken and, out of context, made into their own nemisis. She seemed to be saying exactly the opposite of what she had intended. She knew now how she appeared to others because of 'the evil editor'. The editor who was more interested in what could be sold. Not what was told.And the product? What was the actual object of the promotional rape of her gentle art? It was something that no one needed and was a literal poison to the earth.

...the cat was afraid to come out of the bag.She wanted to let it out but it wouldn't budge.

...finally, love pierced through culture and nationality and all that .

there was a gremlim, perhaps, in the pump. Put there with false suppositions about time and never ending love. The wing began to rattle and shout about something so completely important that no one would ever understand, and, believe it or not, he didn't want to remember it once he did. Understand and remember couldn't be helped at all now. The was a blue moon lurking in hallway sounds. he remembered that he didn't have to release the canopy. if there had been a way he should have. his perfectly straight vector began to curl. there was a tremendous buzzing scream that passed through the whole ship as bone rattleing vibrations .

.... finally he knew who the culprit was and why 'it' was so hard to locate. And then very hard to see unless you kept your eye on 'them' and then you'd, he'd, drop the micro tool for the micro flying machine he'd accidently stepped on in order to find it.He'd retraced his steps thinking about the women not in his life and wondering what the hell had motivated men to inflict such psycological damage on women. And how the deleyad reactions on and from both sides and the time it took to even become aware of what was really going on,and , finally,he reduced the whole thing to the sound of her breath when she slept. This was like an open door into the very infinite heart of the living universe itself. And he would try to get as close as he could to it when he became afraid that the night would somehow for some reason turn itself inside-out.Almost remembering, his right hand was gliding across the floor, trying to find the tool without using its eyes and gently enough not to knock it away somewhere inaccessible to a blind hand.The fabric of the tiny wing between the tps of his thumb and little finger of his left hand, now wandering up and out and over his head to compensate the roaming imbalances created by the gently searching other hand. Oh yes they were aware of eachother in a primal way. But they didn't even know eachother's name.

when he woke up he couldn't remember where he was aned nothing looked familiar. He patted his pockets and heard and felt a small piece of paper in a back one. It was a phone number. One he didn't recognise and, of course, it had no name

He had originaly stood-up just to emphisize his intended gentle criticism conncerning the words used and their meanings ,when employed with a specific conglomerate intent. Had had planned it like this.He had intended it to look and sound itself into a feeling of satisfaction. He'd been almost supine except for the chair he was on with his hands at eye level on his stomach with the fingers extended and touching the other hand's on the tips of all the digits, his ankles crossed , his chin on his chest, and he would start to inhale loudly and cut it off, abrubtly raizing his eyebrows.Throwing his steepled hands up and out in an attempt to inertially drag his body up he drew his legs in and , on impulse, stood. Everything had seemed to be going that way. All the forces condensed into three potent vectors. The words were precipitating and congealing at the back of his throat and gurgling, the crowd was perfectly aligned all over and through itself to collectively take that same instant and stop breathing and the silence was incredible to the point where all thought left, was gone, and the incredible hunger of life made everything allright to the point , the perfect point, where nothing need be said.No one could find a watch for almost three and a-half minutes.Finally a small bird woke because of imbalance on one leg and yelled. Everyone jerked themselves back into total nonsense.

......the variation in the vibration became increasingly evident.What he had thought to be a straight line had started to curve and the shift in the center of gravity increased itself with itself quadratically. And as he veered off course and started to spiral in he found himself contemplating the perfection of the spiral, that spiral. It combined the three lines with a purpose. It seemed as if, when , finally, he was pinned to the ceiling trying to breath, and the view through the port hole was kiliediscopic motion, it was almost as if he were in a birth canal. Fighting the inevitable bright light.Somehow, he managed to get his shoe off with the other and reaching with his enormous big toe, streaching himself into the dimention where mind meets matter, thinking as hard as he could about Whatchumeanny Bay, he managed to hit the eject trip.He had not released the canopy and so the seat tore through the canopy , somehow, right between where his arm and leg and midsection formed a roughly 'C' shaped arrangement. Then, he, the capitan's chair and the canopy , all, all three, took up their own special trejectories.It was a beautiful morning.

What he finally had to do was talk himself into an impossible corner and drown himself in his own words. It took time and patience and a sort of inverse bravery. Where there was no choice. It didn't happen fast or easy and it didn't make sense. He had been brought up to think of himself as a citizen first and a human third, after the sex.But now, now, there, displayed plainly, finally, was the whole spectrum of the human race blending itself into a kind and gentle and kind of humorous conglomerate that now knew better than to take itself too seriously. Yes, yes, everyone lowered their flags to save their lives! And children were no longer trapped in their houses crouching under the televisions, looking for war, and real violence, in the name of a believeable flag. After a while, a good long while, he looked down at the scales on his knees. Yes, lizard scales before his eyes. And Mexican, to boot! And , get this; looking underneath the one covering the patella, the doubled "L" in motion again across the cultures like the lightning of time, was a small fabric tag. It felt like very very fine silk and was a royal purple with bright white lettering, he peered down,squinting as if in pain, he read,"made in China". Screaming silences filled every vacancy in existence inside his mind. His Plutonian heritage tried to force logic squared in from both sides of the question at once and succeeded in, yes, nullifying itself.He suddenly found himself free from a million kilos of confusion. He would lower the flag of Pluto. The American was dead. He had bombed his own country in the name of its flag. Children had died. Reason had fled. An African lion roared.

Well, there had obviouly been a malfuntion in the proccessor. It was as if it was a dubbed film in which the dialouge was absolutely neccesssary , I mean, he was singing his heart out on stage and the lyrics were translated as,'you can't hurt me no more' and you never heard such pain.So, the audience, which included himself,the populace, was trying to put a positive twist on this. and all that he could come up with was a second verse that was about begging forgiveness from fate, admiting the lie, oh, I guess, ready to die.But she was so beautiful that the lie didn't matter now, not now, and, well, lonliness was the greater cloud, the better shroud, for, yes, willing to die for love. It wasn't that extream, of course, because he was a natural coward, just like small birds, and, of course, he screamed loud.(in the key of ' This had no effect on ants,. Or the weather; at least in measurable amounts. Now, if you had seen her eye in that million mile expression it would have been more gravity than you could have explained to yourself .He did the un-obvious, laid that super weapon down. Everyone thanked him. Not obviously,but together in small groups, perhaps.Her eyes, it were, that made him willing to die to the eventuallity. Besides, he was a terrible stranger.(but we know this was only when he flattered himself. And this was hard to do, all alone.bUT THAT WAS THE SECRET OF THE UNIVERSE.....

The prime line was time, of course, and the second was the space that made it, and the third, the creation of the two joined as one in our imagination suddenly making everthing personal. Yes, yes, the bird began to sing and it was the middle of the night.

....and inside, it was fine.The three lines had plenty of time and released from language Cheif Whatoumeanny calmed down and remembered who he was, beyound language and culture.Ruth was really harmless and rather , well, sad.He knew what he needed to know now and he punched the key and went to... and then to, and re-twisted his twang with saki and stringed instrments.

....oh, Ruth was in the classroom, now. She came through the door as if she had just caught a pass and with the ball(her books) clutched to her chest and her head down, as the door bonced off the wall and smacked her in the shoulder, Charlie,seated in the back corner, suddenly realised that he was as Mexican as tamale pie!! And his girl friend was as Chinese as the Doa De Jing! And his mother was Alice Springs aboriginal! And her brother's father had taken severral liberties around the globe and, by god, thought Chuck,what a beautiful confusion of cultures! He whished the children were here and tried to remember their names to give himself a clue as to their mixed cultural heritage, (pinatas at the Chinese new year's at my(his) Irish Pub International freedom from religion fact and religious tact......but, Ruth was here, now, imperitively,as only she can make that word into something her own only, and had recovered from her own assult upon herself enought to scan the room, locate 'the enemy, in jest', and focus on the darkening far corner of the room. She didn't need to narrow her eyes to get the full effect out, but she did, and as the now little 'c' in the corner felt the blankness of total embaressment creeping twords the center of his mind from his now shaking hands and feet, she used her knowledge that he would not admit to to pierce him and hang him on the back wall, figuratively speaking but real enough. "Mr. Martin?" It was not a question but everyone would have said it was and without warning or any other indication of his existance , not to mention prescence,Reverand Doctor Sir Regenald Sylvester Charleston Rodriguez Ooshio Martinez stood and began to speak as if he were begging for his life, demanding an explanation, and condemming a child. He screamed in a desperate whisper,"Sure, sure, it was a perpetual motion flying machine that ran off of the perpetual motion of the spheres, the musical spheres! And , and, it fit in my shirt pocket! But, but, ..." and here he bagan to blubber in a manner I refuse to record! Ruth suddenly felt as if she had eaten a huge duck for dinner and needed to sit. Her shoulder hurt like heck.Charlie was rubbing his neck as he tried to fabricate respect. A small bird outside screamed briefly, beautifully, for no apparent reason.

.......and the truth was like a phantom now. The situation was and had not been what it seemed. Actually he had been looking in the wrong direction. He had been trying to find the connection between the three lines before it happened of its own accord. He had travelled to the ends of the earth, in a dream, maybe, and had sat at the feet of one who would never admit that he was the wisest man on the planet to be told he was a donkey! He'd starved himself and made himself into a crimminal in others eyes. All to no avial. He'd tried to fall in love to be cleansed by the pain but could no longer decieve himself with the twisted love that precipitated war and demanded lines. And in that direction, along that curving sweetly vector, with the thottles open , he flew free of his own trap. And truth moved along side him and it didn't worry him a bit that it constantly changed and yet stayed the same. It was a pre-quantum cloud of intent, perfectly gentle, if left alone and accepted. He took his imaginary, dream,perhaps, hands off of the courpus verde and it was as if they'd both come home at the same time just by chance, and needing nothing, time and space and truth moved into their hearts, howevermany they were, and civilised the contradictions and gentled judgemental donkeys into mules who went back to turning the world. It was said later, conjectured, that the only thing that held him to this world at that juncture was the color of her eyes. A green that existed no where else in the universe. Well, maybe her way of smilling, too. It would come up and want to burst out and then she would make her face into a long slender hand and gently shape it, not opening all the way up, but green spiral galaxies precipitated time into almost concrete. Never wanting to move from them. Never able to forget.You know the feeling. First time solo IFR at night in a real storm and electricity starts to have problems with itself trying to run confused instruments. And then an incredible calmness appears , really out of no where, and the universe is perfect once more in our opinion as well as in fact.Imagine that!

.....space was like fire, now.They stood back from eachother and looked. It was one of those things that happens and so quickly that it is over and done before those involved realise it. And in the crystyle clear moment immediatly afterward there was a cool judgement in both their eyes and knowledge that any space between them was too much. They both knew this now and they held themselves away from eachother, knowing it was useless.Like trying to stop the sun from rising.Words were useless,of course and this was the miricle;they understood eachoher so completely that words , any words, would have been so much less than the aching electric fires dancing between them. It was not visible to the human eye but all the plants in the room decided to live a little more because life was thicker here and now. A small cactus hanging from the ceiling decided it was the time, once in ten years,to bloom and and the cut flowers on the table would not wilt for days.

........time is like water. And whishing he had a bycycle and whistling and wondering about time he decided it was , indeed, twice time for the human race to overcome its pschitzoid languages and multi-cultural internal misunderstandings mandated by national pride and the priviliage to know someone beyound the flag they say they are willing to die for(and this thinking approached a corner, and blinded by what he thought was love but was only a desperate attempt to stem and still the mountainous waters of time, about to collapse, condense into purpose or madness and the tiny currious finch that followed this person named for warriors and fools, magicians and priests, all, suddenly seeing how common, and thankgod the greatspiritgodnamelessone, I am, yes, he was thinking this on the way down the beautiful mountain on that clear blue crystal wind sun, a finch for a friend and a joyful anticipation of what lay ahead. In his head, of course. What really happened when he got to the bar and found he'd lost his secret invention when he'd jumped over that last , well, it was a word, actually a phraASE THAT OVER A THOUSAND AND FOUR YEARS HAD MORPHATED INTO a slang phrase from the church of freedom from religion with its inverse collection plates, each according to his public(there's the catch, he thinks, taking the first sip, watching the piano through the glass)need, and just then his ears told him the door had oppened. He hoped it was her but the alcohol was about to rob his house, it already had managed entry through ritual and now was going to turn best intentions into much worse than nothing, believe you me...(oh, don't worry, everything turns out allright!)... so, the church of the terrible responsibility of the public word or joking journalists international(a tax dedect) sprang into action . Bought him his second drink and there was no problem, not reallyThe door finished closeing and the wind drummed its fingers on the huge windows over looking more than I could possibly understand!.And , look! It was starting to snow. He turned and tried to stand intending to put the top up on his pourchedes, liftng his glass to finnish his rye neat, turning on his heels thinking in his mind how he might look; balanced gathered strong in control, but, she was too conscious of herself anyways, all the time, her friends said , at least, but she had come through the door and down the bar digging in her purse, her incredible black hair invisible and covering her brilliant face, she was singing her list to herself and he was putting on his show for no one. ok. those were the two lines that met and created a point from which sprang the third line, the devine line, the 'what's your's is mine' line that creates time which fufills itself when...and it happened! They bumped into eachother and might even have injured themselves if she hadn't been the quicker of them in actual response time. This surprised them both...they looked at eachother and smiled...and a world began. he was trying to remeber his name....

put into effect his plan to save the world from itself.It wasn't complicated or difficult.Especially with his new flying machine. He instinctively felt in his coat pocket.Yes, there it was. His cell phone rang and he began the ritual of pocket patting and what looked like a frisk search of himself. He sat down on a low wall infront of some ancient knarlly rose bushes. He'd found the phone and was holding it out in front of his face at arms leangth as if it were something he didn't recognize. The wind rattled through leaves somewhere close and a small bird yelled something just for the heck of it, feeling good, this morning, this good good morning. The tall man pressed the 'talk' button and stood."Yes?", he said as if it were the most important question in the universe. If you were just behind him and looking twords the east, over his shoulder, into the sun, a small bird shot straight up through that huge brightness, folded its wings and apexed in the exact center. And if you'd looked really close you would have seen a tiny jewel of a wink! And standing straighter and straighter as an answer came through you noticed that the man was skinny! Very skinny. A gust of wind tugged his coat tails and he had to counter balance by bending a knee. But now both kness were bent and laughter was begining to involve itself with the air. It was one of those almost maniacle laughs. On several levels at once. But not to fear! He was talking to his (although unbenownst to him)soulmate forever. And she? She was by the pool at the club with a tall cold one in (one) hand and confidence in his ignorance of the facts in the other.She'd just informed him that the government grant had come through. If you could have held their 'agendas' up beside eachother you would have thought that they were from different planets. But the universe is perfect. Perfect all the time. No matter what. They both knew this and for him, well, the sound of her voice was enough. For now.

I realised that the 'gloves' were inverse control knobs! 'how beautiful,' i tried to think but I was watching myself watching until I became him and he watched his own eyes, almost. I saw him look down at his left hand, now invisible, elbow deep in the glove, the control glove. he wiggled his little fingeer and his chair spun and the flat deep bed around and underneath him shifted on gymbals so perfectly that all acceleration was directly dorsal from the navel.He pulled his hand out, with dignity, probably because he hadn't wet his pants! and the room lights came up as the lounge retraeted and condensed and seated him upright in the exact center of the sphere. he looked around and knew he would have to walk across the void to the door using feet he could not think about, and he knew he wouldn't make it , but to stay was not possible. he took a step and fell head long into a beautiful morning. he heard the 'door' hiss shut behind him as he stomped his feet and headed off down the daylight.His name was not disolved enough to say yet because it was complicated. It actually was a work in progress.Not only its pronounciation in an emergency, but also its dynamic meanings intertwined as fabulously as the ordinary ever could. He began to worry about the girl on the otherside of the world but knew better and listened for the birds he knew he'd hear singing on his way down to the valley and the experimental flying machines conglomereratical thinking group which even now closed in on the location of access to the eternal perpetual motion in which to soar eternally on ideas put to song and remembered just when you needed a foot or hand that wasn't there, but was,but was. Today was the day he was going to .....

Suddenly he realised he was writing backwards! He tried to look up from the page and around at the now moving room but he was dragged uncerimoniously away ,behind his eyes, and found himself in a particularly thick struggle of inverse hyku, again.This one was that thin path down the cliff-side, wet now with rain and lighted by lightnings from somewhere, below, and you were running, weren't you?. And as in a dream, flying, gently, down, he began to hear the careful pats of his naked feet on the wet stones as they all followed down.It surprised him. He hadn't thought that he had feet now. Balance was maintained only when it wasn't thought about. The sounds became louder, distinct. And once thought about , you know,almost impossible to escape without waking. and so he let go of caution and apprehension and all prediction and let go and flew down the trail in the rain and the lightning and the night. And there it was ; the second line in the form of a sphere. he approached, slowing inverse quadraticly,and let his hands back into existance.they pulled the surface of the sphere into a perfect metal found at the edge of the known universe, that ragged edge that isn't sure where it exists or if it exists . then he remembered how time's smile got streached into a thin expressionless line that far out... and his hand was slideing down the surface of the shere, creating a sliding panel and a palm button that breathed itself inward. he followed. and the lights came up of their own accord. But he never would believe it. He found a note on the wall proclaiming the ship a 'planetary' ship and three brief instructions; first,"find and converge the three lines involved." second, "take the whole idea revealed out for an overhaul." and then, and only when, "there is an imperitive call,STALL!! 'Get a moment to think and, if that fails, to struggle with the 'idea' of inspiration that actually blocks inspiration by climbing up into the Capitan's chair(and what a chair!) and saying as if if your life depended it on it, "Home!!!" ' The machine you built and the fuel of wordular planetification through the eventual absurdity of flags((and not to belittle the tremendous (though insane) sacrifice(s) made by so many, these shall do the deed! But the time for that is past; we have out grown the need or use for nations, perse. The world is the(our) nation now! If we are to survive we must act like a family with the world as our living room', so, in order not to lose hope, he began to experiment with the controls on the chair itself. It had, he saw now, two gloves, huge, and was actually a recliner type of contraption that leveled out perfectly flat.He was thinking about how the weight of a feather on a molecule of air could push it righ through the skin, if all that weight was on that tiny point, and suddenly it was inverse hyku! the weight would be distributed almost over a third of its surface area increaseing the ability to withstand accelerations now well into the double digits and with the water suit, well... He slid his hands into the gloves and the lighting changed. He heard jet whines starting up out of silence slowly, slowly...he lights seemed to go out entirely and suddenly he realised that the interior of the spere he was inside of was comprised of numbers of CRT's! It looked like more than a hundred , just on the one eighty by one eighty degress he could see.Tehy weere beginning to flicker. Wandering lights disappeared as soon as you looked. You laid your head back. Slowly, expecting a doctor's table and hsinking into fabric covered water, skin temp. now that i had skin. I moved the thumb of the left hand and a section of the leaning walss lit up, fluttered. Sounds came from underneath me. About twenty two and a half hertz. loosened the bolts on something over....

"well,George, it looks like the eagle has landed!"
"by golly, i think you are correct, Wally! But, ah, Walter...."
..."yes, i know, i see it too, and this definatly isn't the moon..."
"cool"

Chris B. was here