by
Jaye B.
My excarnation destination is shrouded in fog today. Yet, I still have the coordinates and set out. I reach the paradise and collapse. After the flash flesh erasure, a skeletal meld, a love bond with the 2.5 billion year old mountain ensues. My bones are fossil caramelized and the marrow oozes out like India ink. But just a wishful glitch. I’m still alive and not at the base of Calico finalizing things. I’m up in the Bexi Hills Wilderness area instead, a good 10 miles westward from my last-was-seen camp spot near the repeater towers. An h+tragedy played on some Potemkin Village screen conjured by crass, etheric GGI inserts and lit by Kleiglights within my relucent, subcortical brain structure. With interoception sufficiently enhanced, I’m able to further appreciate this incorporated crassness, the disorganized detachment, the fright without solution that has trailed me from before conception until this end. 10 miles of hiking, the inscription numismatics in my head, I reach the Bixe Pass road up to the mines. Talc ghosts, lit by a corpse candle, powder float around me. I give them the excuse that I was looking for methyl groups with enhanced empathic awareness. They bought it and led me in. My shaft tour guides alert me to the dirty electricity, coccyx hack that occurred during a soak at the Pacote Hot Springs resort. Some marine spirit evil that tried entering me through a sacral crag opened up by EM merman manipulations there.
Closing my sacral energy center down a bit, my talc compadres then bring me before something bipedal and ambidextrous, crowned insectoid with a carapace tiara, a scarve made of pure wool, draped in its outspread arms. I come closer and read the inscriptions on the original sequin, the gold coins sewn into the offered cloth and realize that it is H+ Dante Alighieri before me. He then air drops a goo Virgil into the mine Metaverse we are in and we are all led by the talc ghosts into the ever spiraling depths of the smart purgatory until we reach something dark winged, feet frozen in the ice, unable to flap itself free. H+ D.A. hands me a chisel and I get the hint. Soon the demonoid breaks free and flies back to Pacote Springs to thaw its toes in its hot springs rook, where he lords it over the marine spirit kingdom and with tabloid garishness, causes people to dive in the mud springs, break their necks and drown, have a face-in-the-mud heart attack after sharing their life story , drive a sports car that goes from zero to mortality in under 5 seconds, passengers ending up in the thermal grave murk upside down and with broken necks. Also all the unconditional love townies wading in the septic pond, performing their annual sewer ablutions. Another mystery that beckons investigation.
The laughter of the hack thugs back at China Lake echoes in the mine shaft as I depart. Surely they are amused at just how easy their scalar, behavioral scripting of the various crackpots that plague Pacote Hot Springs is.
TBC
Best,
Jaye B.
©2024-Jaye B.
Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
***
Jaye B. is a writer, musician and artist. His art criticism has appeared in Art Paper, New North Artscape, Art Muscle, Northfield Magazine and elsewhere. His articles have also appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn and Rain Taxi. He has appeared on BBC Radio, WGN Chicago, WLW Cincinnati and elsewhere in the mediasphere to discuss his work. Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
Fascinating! Like the dread of Lovecraft on mushrooms.
You outdid yourself today.
Now I have to Google some of the big words you wield, so I can dig deeper into what you are expressing.
I’ll take the challenge. M