The last writers conference I went to,
one person came to hear me speak.
I decided I had reached my peak.
I wrote about it in a screenplay,
included in a novel, but it wasn’t
published. I might as well have been
serializing a series of novels on the Internet.
In real time. Real-time is the ethnographic-imperfect.
The Melanesian gambit—cat’s cradles made out of cobwebs—
in cyberspace. Do you hear an echo? No, it didn’t have anything
to bounce back against. It’s still going into outer space.
It’s out there where the leaves tremble. Picking up speed.
Hauling ass like a striped-ass ape.