PM: I start from the beginning of the eye. The eye opened and was beaten upon with the consequence of an ancient instinct. Peripheral vision is my guide into my nightmares; a negative reaction to potential negative situations, a big round control knob. The Paranoia Machine: An undesirable situation made into a crown for the king of the world. With a grain of eye in my sand I keep reading the machine day and night—always. I give it information. It returns information. The nightmares continue. I am being followed down hallways and avenues, Sick laughter, the beauty, the damage, all of it must go. I turn the page to the on position. The single page grinds on like a mill. It’s a gift, the nightmares and the mind full of diamonds with no wedding this year or next. In the mind control Olympics, I take home the fool’s gold. I must move the product information. I move it to this planet then THATplanet. The page spins on and on, the nightmares smile at me. My routine begins: eat, sleep, and then back to reading the machine. I consult the paranoia machine about the weather. Storms are autographing the Earth. It is time to take shelter. I strap on the paranoia machine extra tight. The page spins and the nightmares become a gross, malignant, warlike conturbo. The nightmares pass through me like the wind through the branches of a dead oak. I order a song of mud. I cascade down through shadows and their ghost milk. This is the burning time, a time of sabotage and relentless scribbling. The page has been written. The author is me, or I just plagiarize God. The page is held on by a screw. Wires run to the electric motor--a cold slab of heaven. The writing is asemic, timeless, wordless-- it is an event of cosmic dissonance--it is the paranoia machine. Waves from the page send out signs in low transmissions. I have to keep reading the page otherwise the story will come to an end, and THAT is an undesirable situation. The page spins around. The asemic text hints at various formations. As soon as there is something concrete it is gone into decay. Return to birth text, light and umbra. The page spins on, goes like a hard drive, unlocking the mind and spilling the contents. The device has been responsible for dangerous attractions and surveillance. Peripheral vision is the eye of instinct. It is the portion of the eye capable of surveying the round asemic dance and the eye of the trickster. Through these paranoid waters I travel, with only the Paranoia machine for companionship, magic, and deception. Without asemic writing the paranoia machine wouldn’t work. My asemic writing is sloth-like and always from the hand. I have always acted with a calligrapher’s hand.
Peripheral visions coalesce in the mind. There is action as I take the paranoia machine out into the streets. Asemic writing is a wordless open semantic writing. It is international. It is the graffiti of the machine. The paranoia machine is all about repetition and hallucination, and giving voice to undomesticated animalistic urges. Asemic snakes and worms crawl across my body and then they are gone. Clockwork mice run up and down my spine. A cold wheel spins a robot genesis-- a séance of exploding ink rip-written across the clear plexi-glass page. Anthologizing the thesaurus of pain and bliss. A mind heavy with content. It will never end, the rationing of perpetual phobias and junk automotive poetics. No zoetrope or candelabras, the time is ripe to walk the paranoia machine into the sweet darkness. Asemic braille passes, asemic sign language sings. The love-night buries the asemic text in its waters. In the chance of time and wine I have never been more here than now. Paranoia sinks in like a dog red tooth. My mind bursts like atoms. The asemic writing spills sanguine like on the deck of this dreadnaught machine. The more asemic writing is clawed at for meaning the more it dissipates like laughter. I stray awake to the shifting moment. On the page, it’s her, the lady in black. They are coming by ambulance to take me away, to the endless hallways of hospital earth. They are coming for the machine, it’s all they desire. Asymmetry, chloroform religions, and electronic surveillance chickens. Yes, the paranoia machine is set to the correct RPM. The asemic text spills like weeds. I drink its wormwood, eat its burdock, consume the flesh of its peripheral nightmares. Scabs and liver hammers—the skin breaks--The network sprouts--The eye is taught--technology and splatter-core shelters. Around and around it goes like a skipping compact disc. Asemic writing is the only thing I am good at. Sans obsession, the trickling volts. Heavy grinding--mass contact--an aquarium blister swimming with the waste of nano-particles. The eye twitches without inhibition. A drunk creator’s fat kitchen. Cut the news. Besides the paranoia machine, the only crazy thing is love.