by Fin Sorrel

The part where we're curling through the computer and we scalp a mad man.

         The wigged man enters, it's Trumpty Dumpty, who sat on the wall.

Us kiddies jump up, and climb over the rubble, scraping brick to reach him, three of  us take hold of his neck, and bludgeon his head until he's “sleeping,”  while the others get his stupid ugly wig off of his head and feed it to Grandma! The ripped Scalp called Trumpty 2 I cut out like an orange skin, and toss the imbeciles body aside off the wall, into a twitchity old Trumpty Dumpty pile, spasms, Trumpty Dumpty who had a great fall, and all the king's horses, and all the king's men couldn't put Trumpty back together again!


10:00 A.M. : managing The Operators line of heart vessels, it smells like warm,  hollowed voice interrupting and now we cross it out, to a 90s /1990's Coca-Cola commercial,

Really, I have to say about the woven hair really, all I have to say about the woven hair is, I'm gonna cut it off with my boxy cutter. That woven Hair We placed after carving his hair from his head with the Box knife that woven light fluff, we put it in Granny's lap so she is not so alone and pets the soft hair when she is blind. The rocking chair sounds like lung cancer. The squeak, [remember to grab oil.] Your hair is her new dog Trumpty Dumpty, your raw scalp is soft, she Whispers, soft he is, our new puppy. Okay? Trumpty? Okay?

it smells like warm soup with pinto beans and kale and salsa. I hear cartoons behind me Coca-Cola commercial interrupt again, hallowed interrupt a.m. Matrix of the heart being now entered, copy of Halo voice cut back to Christopher Robin, and Winnie the Pooh talking to each other cut back to Coca-Cola 80s commercial.

I smell cooking potatoes, my head is full of beer-guitar,

smell the newspaper print

cut-to-hallowed-emptiness, the gas leak, you are sitting elsewhere. We are here at a table

call us.

Honky horn outside, time to go, I flossed the ribbon, floss a space out on the floor, through crawl space, climb along the cobweb, the dirt smells good like algae, I sniff the ground to get the smell inside of me. Grandma is coming in, in her chair rocking down the crawl space, behind me. Petting little tough D Trump d in her arms. She smiles toothless, laughing. Good boy. She reminds, good boy. The scalp dripping dried blood on her old yellow dress. On the full moon all the attention goes into the backyards of 8 houses yet. I prop up the empty rocking chair, and change into a costume behind the broken fence. Grandma starts a fire with the Trumpty 2 scalp, his hair lights up in the orange flames instantly, like nitroglycerin gasoline, good boy. Thanks Grandma, good boy.

A.M:  a.m.

magnifying glass.

Car on Street, hallowed we are on the phone-death, on the phone, 1990's Coca-Cola talking voices: heavy breathing,

“hurtling through the computer”       I see through the windows. Diagnostics, the rhythm is high-pitched// “You are somewhere else, we are sitting here, in the kitchen.” The Voice knows nothing but it's these jeans, they're tight, and getting sick/ my throat hurts, it burns. Ask too many questions,

[cut to cut to another voice that eats time, a new voice, a human voice, the job has worn this voice to Sadness,] the potatoes are almost ready / and knows nothing / it asks many questions, too many questions, the questions … Never End …

“Smells good, I think they're done,”

[Break into the long light]

I hear a beeping sound and cartoons, it's cold in here.

How I have imagined this raft where the light is soft, and warm, and the cold takes on your head so strong, two leaves make a padded seat for Hungry Eyes, the room is getting darker, fiction blanks out white between the lines, blank, the 1924, “You are somewhere else, we are here, in the kitchen.” Then blank … [

]| \ Children's foreign language makes up no sense, scrambles for the edges of the attention from jogging in to go skinny,Down-The-Landing, to the ferry, and Gene is the name and yoyo up-and-down string I'm getting sick, my throat hurts. It burns. These jeans are too tight. Vertical like skate ramps even to the Moonlight Sun, ocean breaks past noon into mid-evening, waves, smells good. I think they're done…

The beakers are lined up with our neighbors hanging their heads over the beakers, as it's about to spit. The kid with glasses, the girl from next door, Randy's mom, Suzanne, Barbara, Kathy and Mike. They focus, me and Grandma talking on the phones we got out back. Old rotary style, the fence wobbles where I piss at. I smell the fire Cinders. Ain't no more Honky Tonky horn!

Just crickets, just Birds

The part where we get a Nervous motion and bury the scalp of a madman

… HhHheadaches are a ... peppermint camera … for me.  I take 3 ... puzzles ... and rings and watch flies swoop in from the door, it's folded cloth like a pumpkin, my glitter feels like thumb … I hold in my hand, another glittered hand of my own. Thirst, I spill water everywhere, a crossword puzzle of fingers and woodgrain interstices, pools of floating tables, all of the voices stay dry ... afloat, the perfect swimming weather, sweater weather, silly sweater, slanting winter. The perfect silly sweater ... Nervous motion on flames, they lick at the rock quarry walls, scoping them from the super station, they are secreted landing mods, eyes examined … eyes examined.


Let's bury Trumpty Dumpty's melted plastic hair! I dumped the black lump into a hole and Granny sheds a tear and says a few words about Trumpty Dumpty. The neighbors piss on the burning hair.

Late, we're landing South, forever ... Times keeper whispers at the knots of the neck …  A ship asleep, whisper ... from hidden stones ... beneath the pillow, the dream keeper, and guide, nervous entryway of crumbling, hold together of blossom the dirt, thick like Play-Doh over his eyes, scalped mad man.

crash down salt to Temptation/ “I am getting sick, my throat hurts. It burns.” Author, lying in Lakes, even with the Papyrus boat of dance, evening Papyrus, [breaking into the long light] Former Tech Giant is sued, and takes up side hacking, into the computer, the computer ruined him, writing poetry from the perspective of the person living in the simulated TV show.

Nervous motion, blank egg whites coughing up phlegm. And, 8 sleigh bells, sleigh couch. 14 year olds, slay 54 year old, the three coughing here, just a minute. Carbon breathes a network through fans, plugged to the wall, the pin number below glows 909. [Clothes for 92,] glow zero. The projector glows, grilling, Smoked Cigarettes against the white tablecloth, the cartoon mentions this before running away:

I smell a pair of shoes in the darkness, uncover my eyes from the Sheep cloth, the metal folding chair, the flickering light of the projector, spinning.

The part where Trumpty Dumpty enters the underworld at 9:22 p.m. Saturday, and gets beaten up by an underworld gang.

Black curtains shift on string. Toys wattle on stage, shuffle about, falling over. White light every 23 seconds is slowly faded up, then drops back down to Black Knight. On small kids bicycles a hunched-over figure and another rolls in onto the stage, running over the toys. He's wearing a mask and an old-timey costume, and  he checks his pocket watch and replaces it back into his vest pocket. He stops at a TV set. The audience can view this black figure from the back of his head. He is watching some kind of spiral as it grows closer and closer to him from the television.

A janitor walks on stage carrying a push broom. Each time the “Music Stops” the character freezes, and then unfreezes.

A crowd of people walk passed the two, and flip off the janitor, one bashes the dark figure in the head, the lights in the room short out. A buzzing sound, and then a loud POP!

The gang laughs and leaves, smashing a bottle. [ Someone in the audience whispers: That's Trumpty Dumpty. ]

I walk into the den as a child and bounce a rubber cloud on the tile floor up and down. Rubber Cloud.

Four times before losing interest the cartoons in the background, coughing up phlegm from the TV, Ouch. Coughing here just a minute, Masturbating rice into an Easter egg hunt. Her suture lies on the grass, beneath the golden shower. She drink 40s, pretending to drive, kissing.

All while I smell soup, oatmeal flavored and stare at the rug. Shiting 10 days out. Tire bending Secrets, the jet alarms, dog frame, sauntering down the sidewalk yelling out. But, all that came out was chicken, the sister holds for us to smell.

A wire Crossing; mammal, four legs long, a very tall chicken, 20 feet tall, walking down the highway.

In the Attic of an old house, the three of us could see the moonlight and stars from the glass ceiling. [ It looks like dying dogs and flies. ]

Vopsvsoin: _\. END SIGNAL [Sleep 5000 loop]

Convey your friend a little message and shut down his / her computer:

Type :


@echo off

msg section break I don't like you

shutdown -c "Error! You are too stupid!" -s

Save it as "Anything.BAT" in All Files and send it.

The Black Curtain closes, swaying. The character rises up off of the ground. The janitor jumps up and down. The TV has been replaced by a bed sheet on two hooks. The dark figure lowers to the ground “Slo-mo” and the janitor puts a bag over his head and the black shadow ties on a rope. Lights out. Curtains drop.

Granny and I turn away from Trumpty Dumpty's burial and walk back along the bridge to the little old cabin where we live.

“I think it is time we had some tea, don't you?” She says.