sexuality

free young memory impinged upon by memory she will fly away from green-thumbs graduated ROTC Air Force paid for school now six years due The Nation six years she will fly beyond her memories over The Nation over The City
trees, birds, flowers all things green living destiny blue sky not that she does not like plants or Life as Plantwoman it’s a job a summer gig until her “papers” come from Central Command her orders and she leaps from gray-black asphalt to azure sky

Women history The City.
At the Museum of Women Plantman saw: The “Clothing Collection”: Silk and satin traces.  Centuries-old skirts and dresses; Summer frocks of decades past. Wardrobes. Fashion. Chic aged to antique.
Pinned to every skirt dress blouse a brief descriptive card: Year, value. Year, value.
Clothing once alive with women, once women-animated clothes. Once women of The City. Anticipating nights, inhaling cricket air of parks and gardens. Exhale. City engine of oblivion. Gone lithe beauties;  gone buxom matrons cherished secrets of their own.

At first glance, Kiran looks like a man much younger than his 27 years. He lives in Bangalore, India, with Kavya, 26, a cheerful and determined woman. Hailing from agricultural families, the two had met as students in their hometown in Warangal district in Andhra Pradesh, the largest southern Indian state. It wasn’t safe for them to stay close to their families, however, because Kiran was born as a girl.

Plantman took a brief but necessary vacation, or personal day — as if the rest of his days were property of Topiary Techniques — to visit the world-famous City Museum Complex.
The plaque outside The Hall of Hoaxes read, “Everything The City promised you, but never delivered. Everything The Nation promised you, but never delivered.”
Hyperbole, true, but what can one expect from The Hall of Hoaxes?

Zarathustra’s Dragons stormed the stage like Cro-Magnon angels, a feral furry crew, too savage for Redemption, too innocent to Fall.  Where their hair ended and their clothes began was painful to discern. The lead singer wore an ornamental bone through his nose. A necklace of human teeth, plucked sentimentally, the press releases claimed, from the jaws of one night-stands, hung to his navel. The band looked like they’d been used to scrub a large, industrial kitchen.

What is a girl’s desire in the world of men?
The Office Women, the “Datists,” convert raw numeric to “actionable” info.
Datists sit smartly at squat machines. Squarish, sleek machines. Explosion of words, images, connections; algorithms of deception; comedy of ease—click clack click—terror’s brilliant pixel-hues.
“Do not fear us, we cannot replace you, you have souls and lips and skin, mutable, we see you feel you smell you. . .” hum the machines.

I recently watched Joseph Losey’s film version of Bertolt Brecht’s play The Life of Galileo. First performed in 1943, and revised in 1955, Losey’s production was filmed in 1975. One of Brecht’s best-known dramas, The Life of Galileo addresses the oppressive nature of religion both in terms of its control of thought and its collusion with power in maintaining the status quo. It is as if within knowledge resides damnation, as if any human even has foreknowledge of such a fate should it exist.

The Company Gym. Buff bodies.  Faces taut with grim determination.  Diets optimized by scientific know-it-all know-how proven computer-charted-and-corrected scientific method.  Belief systems built on strong foundations of clinical experimentation repeated for accuracy under stress-increased conditions, peer-reviewed.
Hard labor builds hard selves.

Note: Certain critics among our “journalistic peers,” so-called, have impugned the integrity of The /dev/null Staff with accusations of “unprofessional and unsavory tactics” pertaining to the reconstruction of this particular sequence during The Plantman’s ordeal on earth. The Staff did hire a professional hypnotist to delve into this part of The Plantman’s past prior to The University and his subsequent employment at Coolman Associates Advertising Agency.

The Coolman & Associates Human Resource Manager coordinated writers, designers, client accounts.  Killer for the company.  In eight AM out eight PM.
Sexy in her way.  Frantic.
Turned me on. Two years older than I was, then: she was twenty-six.  We eased into chummy, casual, quick to jest, but cautious. Wary of terms.
“Hell,” I said. “We spend our lives here. Who are you?”
“Good point,” she said. “Work, work, work. Love?”
“Love the town all night, let’s go!”