Some viruses down there with tentacled lightning bolts inside of them and when the alarm goes off I think they might be evolving auditory capabilities too, but am convinced otherwise when I realize iron church bells and their digital analogs are human creations. There is also some type of ocean still spread out here and there, but it seems hot and bubbly through the telescope, with heavy gray steam sizzling out of the waves.
My floaty lair, which is titanium-soaked and of complex composite construction keeps spinning. I sleep on top of military uniforms and magazines. The best, the most dreamy it gets, I might add, is just when Orion swings into view and I am piping a piece by Brahms through the station's intercom system, full blast.
Meanwhile and forever, the deeply fluorescent colonies pour color out of them as a result of their communion and collusion. It is sort of like phthalocyanine blue but in twenty-six discrete bosonic dimensions. A common side effect of contacting these emanations, either visually or through certain arcane mystic practices, can be detected in humans as a lingering ennui punctuated by moments of inappropriate laughter.
Bu what I really wanted to tell about was the new light, which is very beautiful; how ironic it is to see the way it filled in and replaced the similar bright white photonic waves that used to come crashing out from what my personal robotic canine companion says the sentient inhabitants called cities. He is good for compiling and disseminating data, but isn't worth a damn at catch or fetch.
I have eyed him watching the main view screen for updates on several occasions. Yesterday he expressed an interest in films about animals that flew.
That made me laugh and I said to the stars I am glad I stayed up here through the roughness and everything else that accompanies tragedy and transition, even though the replicator will lose its ability to manufacture Tecaté, due to a lack of available software updates, in about six point seven years.
Upstairs where the sun is more or less permanent—an instrument of perpetual peace and eternal sleep—a special collection of plastic robots is making the glass hand I will wear into battle. It lights up and everything.
There is a circuit buried in its thoriated, aluminum palm and it is made from butterflies and milk; it will play my favorite songs just as the customary obsidian knives are loosed upon the forces of disease.
Their army, formidable and heavy as uranium, appears in my dreams as infinitely long Mexican cities. Those places are woven from looming cathedrals, rain-soaked avenues, forgotten corn-husks that have been chewed upon by the attendants of flowery victory.
There are moths for sleep. The dark glasses are for tomorrow.
Next time I will wear an elaborate and cleverly networked
costume with permanently forlorn antelope horns for eyes,
a real dragonfly brooch and the loamy fragrance
of summer invading my hair like four hundred million
tiny star ships programmed for the autonomous
and robotic exploration of nearby planetary objects.
A cloak made from freshly cut tobacco and ruined
cornhusks will lovingly shield me from all instances
of cold water. There will be gloves of sufficient technological
advancement, the work of astronauts or faraway singing cowboys,
the open mouths of life on earth. For shoes I will paint my feet
with plutonium and initiate a heavy yet self-replicating dance
describing the celestial mechanics that cause the moon to circle
around like it is made from the past, so far away and endless.
Rudolfo Carrillo is a writer and artist who lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He is the author of Infinity Report, an experimental text and image site, and also edits Things In Light, a New Mexico arts, music, and literary site, with his wife Samantha, the music editor at the Weekly Alibi.
His work has previously appeared in a variety of galleries, literary magazines, newspapers, and journals, including Maverick Magazine and On Barcelona.
Carrillo will be presenting his recent work as part of a panel on experimental writing that he is chairing, at the 34th annual conference of the Southwest/Texas Popular Culture and American Culture Association.
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