I Got a Job in Dada Entry – Jesse Hilson

Dodging my salts. Meaning deliberately not taking psych meds, lithium being a salt. I did that a few times, went to the college library and read poetry. Whenever I dodge my salts these days, it’s never on purpose but just because I forget. Troubled by basketball traveling. Not dribbling enough while taking the pill to the hole.

Complaints: Rashy glabella, flakes, itching, third eye skin disease lurking in the genotype-patterns as the symmetrical coloration of a cat’s fur hides in the DNA of the zygote. Patience for manifestation in ill health. My psychic variant came with matching physiological signs and symptoms. Imperfections in the flesh. Double take. The creepy feelings in the body. Bone cancer of the pubis. Vitamin Dracula: guy has massive vitamin D deficiency, is put on mega dose, it causes him extreme suicidal ideation, come to find out he has a life-allergy to vitamin D: no sun, a vampire.


Objectification. Walk 360° around the pawg angel-sculpture. The rear-view of the angel on the cover of Ministry’s Psalm 69 had me like: ________. Victoria’s Secret lingerie models with wings. Something about being winged appealed to women: you saw it in Halloween costumes, tattoo back pieces. Angelic bodies on 3-dimensional display: wasn’t sexual lust for angels what did Sodom & Gomorrah in? The men of the town encircled Lot’s house where the two angels were inhabiting demanding the angels to come out so the men could “know” them. Pornography is deformation. Her face while giving head was deformed. Neck. Brain. Sex disfigured the angelic corpus but even worse for you. Five “knowing” intersections with the cubic phalanx-field of angel pussy were all it took. You fucked the angel and thenceforth were scattered, could only think in sentence fragments. Lost your verb-marbles to the Babel-baby. All verbs theologically disabled in illusory time.

I have grown into having a uniform way of wiping away tears, I use my right hand to wipe tears away from my left eye rightwards clockwise across the bridge of my nose to my right eye. I do it all the same way now. Something chiral and spun about the hand-to-face combination, like a child’s top in the galactic spiral arm.

I got a job in dada entry. Feeding scripts and routines to nihilistic vomit robots. The boss man speaks: “I’ve got my eye on ten different secretaries, and each one has a different colored pen to take dictation with. This? This is your color…” He gives her a green pen. She makes counterfeit money with it instead of taking dictation.

I would rather you didn’t go there. That place is haunted. He would rather lose his life than give up on his promise to his country. Would you rather handle it now or later when you have gotten all that weight off your shoulder? Father would rather not leave the car in that neighborhood. I would rather flirt with the American over there by the painting. She speaks fluent French:

“Coronavirus: entre soin et insouciance vous étiez tous arrangés en divinité”

“il existe une sorte de sous-genre de ‘théorie-horreur’ aussi répandu que la moisissure noire”

Rathering is preferring one path over another before the fork in the road has been reached. It is not a physical place but rather a site in the mind where futures are ranked before they are even defined, like colors chosen and applied in the mind’s eye before any paint is mixed on the palette. An animal can’t be said to possess that abstraction until it can invent an adverb to indicate the arborescence of choices trembling in the moment just before they are made. Unless there is objective luggage carried by thoughts in their travels, a thought is not a thing. And therefore some portion of you lives life as an invisible beast. More latent ghost DNA. But this is the part that has strongest opinions about every decision about to be made. Headmasters, bursars, deans at the Currentivist Academy don’t understand the time cube.
Pick one sense: the pin attached to the beggar lady’s finger, she pricks the baby’s leg secretly to make it cry, makes her case more pathetic to the passersby on the bridge. Why endow the ear with sensitivity and then deny the ear the ripple target? The park’s stimuli offering itself to you in patterns just beyond elucidation. Birdsong’s glassy reverb. Insectile carpet of sound. How tantalizing these hidden gears of reality are. Perform the exorcism of a jaded eye. Evict the demon that resides entwined around the sensorium rope. One amusing privilege is to watch a woman’s face while emotions gradate and nuance-dance across it, emotions intersecting with flesh, and then you see there, some evidence they have formed a judgment, about you, the face-flame flickering. There is, in us, sensitivity enough to make oral sex and telepathy practically one, reading in the lower mind, the mind of the other body—instead of reading the mind set apart from that body—the dark, concentrated effulgence that can only be apprehended with eyes shut through a lead apron interfering with fellatio or cunnilingus. Whenever you encounter another person, a heat-seeking missile latches on and pursues you through a city of fog.