Chloë Joan López
chlo'jo'lo'
Feast of Saint John

Martyr of the dark ages.

Look, there's nothing I can say. Sit in front of the canvas, all day, every day, weeks on end, hunger strike, squatter's right, house arrest, occupation, colonization, biome climax, and still: nothing. Poor reportage to say the least. I have nothing but stocking feet for you. Oughta be a way.

We need every one of those billion little couplings. I read it on the wires, you know. I read it aloud, bounding, on the wires. This is live television. This is unrehearsed live television. This is telegraphed.

Cigarettes leap to their deaths. Well, not really. But their corpses do. Into the copse. The cradling copse. It's a little like asking what is one mile north of the north pole. I don't think biome is the right word up there.

And unlike Mr Cage, I am not saying it. Choose: Fame, glory, jargon. Choose: 100 people who get it, or a million people who read it, of whom only one-tenthousandth get it. Choose: choice or consolation.

Eat me. Pay me.

The reason, the real reason there is nothing to say is that I can't speak. The miniature hyoid I've bundled up in curtain cord and forced to walk the plank. It's so meek but brave that way. I think I'll push my cuticles all the way back to my teeth. 20 cuticles, 20 teeth (molars on reserve).

oh hell.