"You are fiction and I am a lie". (4)

Is that true?

A cultist fanatic recently tried to convince us that almost everything we know to be true

Is not.

Ipso facto: he is not

as well.

Rather unwel


We are losing sight of who we are. Of what we are becoming.

(Lucille Clifton: "i am not done yet. as possible as yeast. as imminent as bread...i continue to continue where i have been. most of my lifes is where i'm going.")(1)

A curator asked me: what do you want to be when you grow up? I said, I am never going to grow up. (e.e. cummings said: "It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are".) Sorry, e.e. In fact it takes courage to be, now, who you really are.

That is, if you can figure out




I listened to Sondheim, to "Company".

I learned: "You'll always be what you always were".

Going to figure this out.

Going to somewhere, elsewhere, any/every/also where

To find

The y

Of i.i.

Sometimes we hesitate

Dig in

Wear yesterday

Like a sweat-worn smell-borne coat

Torn Dreams

Shorn illusions

For we know

It will not terminate




(I am writing. You are reading. Ipso facto...)

Certainties have shattered.

Is that why I am creating pieces surrounded by shattered glass fragments?

Are you shattered by today?

Battered into a tremulous tomorrow?

Mad Hattered into Futterwacking? (2)

Carbon-based humans are increasingly seen as conveyors of self-destructive genetic information systems, based upon inefficient patterns of growth, maturation, and decay. New life forms are close on our heels, not next century, perhaps as early as next decade.

Why new creatures? Because the current human genetic model incorporates death and disease. Because humans are cumbersome for inter-galactic travel and expensive to maintain. (We throw up over Mars.) Because the time for human existence is coming to an inevitable close, not by collision with an asteroid but by the exercise of our own ingenuity.

The brains that enabled us to out-think faster, stronger animals are now designing our own successors as the you and I of yesteryear disappear into the dustbins of biology.





the new cellophane

window pane

toxic rain

of hubricaine.

Once upon a yestersecond

i.i. burst into the surround

Propelled by a thrust

That said

I must


I must grow around, through, above and below. I must permeate, penetrate, infiltrate.

I must be

coming, learning, expanding, unfolding.

I am orchid. I am chipmunk. I am pollen. I am delight.

I am polliwog, farting frog, centipede, giraffe.

Bitten, smitten, squiggles and laugh


aphim, breathless whim, her and him, simp

ly skin

ny and amp

ly lush.

Pocket rocket, thirsty socket, ynot, and x-marks-the-spot.

If it breathes or moves, it is my kin. If it looms in majestic silence, it yet whispers to me.

You see

I am multitudinous, and you are pluripotential.

They told me I would spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, institutionalized.

They told me I was a genetic misfit, an oddity, a rarity.

They told me to write my Will.

I wrote my Won't.

I won't succumb to your down, your cannot, your churlishness.

I Will


Nourish my panoplies

Abolish my negatories

Polish my aborigimes.

I need to know. To grow. To flow.

To taste the delectable.

To inhale joy and outhale wonder.

(Pablo Neruda: "I have a mind to confuse things, unite them, bring them to birth, mix them up, undress them, until the light of the world has the oneness of the ocean, a generous, vast wholeness, a crepitant fragrance.")(3)

Crepitant? How delicious.

Sizzle, crackle, fizzle and spit.

Confused? Deal with it.

I seek the unpredictable. I touch the inexplicable. I wed the unimaginable to the vastly incomprehensible.

Who am i.i.?

Ponder a climbing vine. Voluptuously green. Exasperatingly infertile.

Cut back, to be well-mannered. To be squashed into conformity, into the vanillaness

Of almost, unfulfilled, sans ID, mediocrity.

Smash the squash. Banish the clipper-wielders. Obliterate the nons, the uns, the don'ters and won'ters.

Just Stop.

Stop cutting. Stop minimizing. Stop emasculating and exasperating the prepubescent buds.

Behold! Exuberant, exorbitant, extravagant


redfull essence.

I understand.

i.i. the vine.

i.i. the shimmering spine

quivering shrine

betabet sign



m.i.a. enzyme?

I'll create a new paradigm.

i.i. Sublime.

c. Corinne Whitaker 2021

Note: all of the images in this essay came from a single selfie, encrypted through several A.I. passages and then decrypted and re-envisioned through the magic of digital imaging.

(1)"The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton 1965 - 2010"

(2) futterwacking

(3) Pablo Neruda, "Too Many Names"


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