Jedidiah is on an island in Denmark and Sean miniDorf is calling from the back of his new school bus in Santa Cruz Ca, while drinking pomegranate wine he fermented himself and mixing peanut butter into beer.
The poem by Sean Meni Menindorf at the end of the cast is prime.
⸻
Voice to Text Slam
(Technically it’s Meni… Meni Menindorf)
Drinking strong pom
Hooch, in the parking lot of the county building,
fast charging
while I wait to hear back from the focused intervention team.
This is a voice to text slam.
They like it when we pay attention to them.
It energizes them.
They start wiggling and dancing faster,
apparently vibrating harder,
almost like they want us to see their true nature.
These are the same scars,
banging into each other,
and when they do
they catch and twist
and become one longer thread—
these little loops of things,
individualized into a dimension of their own.
Like a bubble emerging from an ocean—
this is what dimensions playing together looks like.
Strings and circles, loops and lines,
expanding and contracting
in their size and variety of depth.
So we plasmify everything
as these unauthorized vehicles are towed away at your own expense.
Attention: visitor parking kiosks are unavailable until further notice.
Santa Cruz County.
701 Ocean.
DC 62.5 KWDC.
Use the mobile app
to get notified when the station is available.
Price—
We’d like to notice them.
They become alive when we see them,
read them, hear them,
touch them, play them,
jerk them, tug them, drive them,
feel them, tug them,
push them, jerk them,
feel them.
Plastic sexual insertion inside of the courthouse,
as I see seven blue suits
and a bunch of uniforms—
sergeants and officers—
entering the prosecution hall.
Dare I consider
the actual act of doing something multidimensional?
Like that time when I walked in
to change my name at the county building,
reeking of deer carcass,
because that is all I am wearing—
that and a loincloth—
surrounded by a posse,
looped like a loop of humans around me,
so that no one can get in,
no one could arrest me,
without arresting three
seuth-saying people first.
And again I feel free.
And again I feel safe.
I don’t need to escape
to some boat or some India
or some other delta.
I am here in my hometown.
I am alone. A.
Ohlone ~1
923 — that time when the Beatles alliterated,
notice it’s turning,
with, know ’tis it’s turning.
⸻
