Meet your Hairy Cells

At first, it all read like cytoplasmic fiction, some sentences made sense, others did not, where paragraphs read like mathematical curses filled with inscrutable symbols, undefined values, an alchemy of whys and scientific dread: “dad, can you take a quick look at my labs?” Or did it read more like a poem, where cellular stanzas turn into sophomoric (antibody) meters: a soma of lymphomas have turned into phobias/his mortality/a reality

Stereolab: “The Long Hair of Death”, ALUMINUM TUNES (SWITCHED ON, VOL. 3)

Pasolini once mused: “I pass on, in a line of verse, by dying, I make poetry.”

Was this your final project? An aesthetic of purine analogues versus the couplets of cytopenias—obscurity through poetry and imagery.

A flood of memories, synaptic storylines—thee hairy death of cells. Flashes of creative license and distortion: how their pixel friendship ended; a polymer marriage, an ocean divorce; city of my birth: San Diego; solo puedo decirte que te extraño, California; presently/built by glaciers/ILLINOIA; progenies and pros·e·lytes; no Catholic guilt, no Latin martyrdom, no angels, atoms or atheists; no feigning distraction of applied sympathies;


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My first introduction to cancer was through a girl I dated in high school, whose older sister had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Apparently, they were defective breast implants that had ruptured, releasing silicone throughout her entire body. I think the first time we met, I might have sold her an ounce of weed, which was more medicinal than recreational, due to her chemo treatments. I don’t think we smoked, but did sense a hint of paranoia, I mean here was this kid selling her something that could have automatically meant jail time for both of us. She might have even asked me if I was an undercover law enforcement agent, “a narc?” I always wondered if her surviving family members had ever received any compensation from the multiple lawsuits that were filed against Dow Chemical/Dow Corning. Again this all sounds very dated, considering the amount of states that have passed decriminalized drug possession and legal marijuana legislation for medicinal and recreational usage—the republic of Texas will never, ever pass such legislation, but I digress.

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“My father slaps me and I see the sun.”

Wade and wait, awash myself in positive sine waves—tidal immunity.

[ed. note: The morphology of his blood cells showed microscopic cytoplasm (cilia) that resembled hair, hence, the name, Hairy Cell Leukemia (HCL). HCL accounts for 2% of all leukemias with approximately 1000 new cases being reported in the United States each year. Completely treatable, but not curable, survival rates are statistically high and remission seems plausible.]

(+) “My father slaps me and I see the sun.” — The last line of Georges Bataille’s “[Dream]”, the first of the essays in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings: 1927-1939.

(+) Antonio Margheriti :: The Long Hair of Death, 1964

(+) Sun Ra: Le Soleil. The Black Power Tarot cards: Alejandro Jodorowsky and King Khan

(+) Stereolab :: “the long hair of death”, ALUMINUM TUNES (SWITCHED ON, VOL. 3)

(+) PTS : PTS, or Progressive Treatment Solutions, is a vertically integrated cannabis company leading the way in Illinois and Michigan.


blue con·struc·tion paper

Walking in a daze, a blotter of tectonic plates shift underneath my feet.

In an instant, a piercing hum resonates and a wall of sound snaps creating a vacuum, the sun shifts, sine waves on a still lake—light and shadow—vibrating grains of sand glint off a green prismatic horizon—an acid valley full of desert faults.

Colored heads float on a sandy shore with green neon, cath·ode imagery.

An atlas sky, a lab assistant, a collection of animals made from blue construction paper, as scissors cut tiny hands with crooked angles, where they shake and dance.

Thee master of ceremonies (without make-up) speaking in tongues, anecdotal desert stories, stereo modulation, Doppler shift and regret.

Hubble masses gather under a dotted sky of signing constellations.






Catullus 73

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo (“I will sodomize you and face-fuck you”) 

Carmen 16 taken from the collected poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84 BC – c. 54 BC).


A poetic commodity, power through pixel and perversion. El cuerpo desnudo. ¿Y que mas? What else? Aquí soñé desnudo con ella.

It was the calculus of her body that he loved—her lines/curves, every square inch of her body, every mole and fold of skin—how she tasted, how she reacted to every tactile sensation/insertion—the golden (ratio) symmetry of her entire being.

Traité des pratiques geometrales et perspectives. 1665.

Turbine Cowboy

Nestled between green patches of ocotillo, creosote and barrel cacti, high above at 300 feet, he could hear his grandmother, “mijo, just be careful, please!”  

“Sí abuelita!” 

How many years had past since he heard her voice, since she last spoke, before the aneurysm, before her stroke, before—Neural Housekeeping at Hotel Dieu—death?


HAWT (horizontal axis wind turbine/λ = blade tip speed/wind speed/turbine cowboy)

ET (external tank) / de Laval nozzle (inertial oscillations)

bell (soleri)

prog·e·ny (gæl/grace)

Where I am has no location in space and time, by saying,  “I am”, I’m not referring to the body/mind. I am referring to the awareness in which my body/mind is a changing experience—California is a human construct. ¿Califas?
I live non-locally, but my physical body is in California at the moment.