The moon was low and large and distant in the sky. The inter-dimensional machineries churned to keep the Trans-Dimensional Hypercastle in place, and the haze produced fuzzed the moon, as if she were the ghostly final slice of a peach. The crystalline lattice of fluorescent blue light tubes slowly unfolded under the heavy-lidded lunar gaze. It seemed to be grasping at the whole of night.
The Miizzzard walked up to it and began to play his Hyper-Crystal Mind-Organ…
The other day, the Miizzzard decided to take a walk, to more clearly contemplate the strange flowering that has blossomed into the sentient universe and the techno-spirituo-promise of the singularity. “Space is the Place,” sing Sun Ra and June Tyson; “There’s no limit to the things that you can do (Space is the Place) There’s no limit to the things that you can be.” Well, pounding the paved swamp of the Greater Houston Area gives one perspective on the relationship between concrete and the stars. Maybe one day homo cosmos will swim in the free-fall of the middle of hollowed-out asteroids; maybe one day we will all know the joys of the Silver Surfer. But these are days of lead, and each step is heavy.
The Miizzzard stands alone underneath the mystic crystal pinnacle of his trans-dimensional hypercastle, focusing the magical energies to better delve into the universe. The weight of it all presses against his flesh as if he were buried in mud at the bottom of the ocean; and yet, he is lighter than air atop a structure that cannot be contained in any one locus of the space-time continuum. The paradoxes of his life drive him down the cascading steps, tapestries of lost times mocking his vision; which at times, can cut into the vastness of infinity. But not now. It is occluded.
The Miizzzard is neither male nor female, and both; and at times, one or the other, or one of those in-between or beyond. Ze will wear whatever mask. The integral of zir relational path thru space-time produces a fourteenth-dimensional hypersexuality.