First I yank the gridiron virtually, mega-magic carpet rippling small tsunamis for the gamer inspired by the game.

 

The crystal football soars 100 yards exactly, the ultimate Hail Mary pass, emitting a harmonizing hum and rainbow glowing. The long-muscled receiver’s resilient fingers envelop the long-range rocket as a tangible cloud enshrines the lightning, slo-mo diving in the end zone promised land.

 

Zeus, the QB+ responsible, thrusts his V-clenched fist on high. The crowd cheer decibels rise to ear-bleed level.

 

Thunder smiles as sudden death expires with the touchdown.

 

He thanks the quantum winds of change, his eye-of-the-storm fidelity, his stalwart offensive line, his genetic freak of a throwing arm, and of course his superhumanly gifted wide receiver, Torch Ectoplasm.

 

Skulls of brain-damaged suicides line the end zone, reminder of fallen concussion victims of the smashmouth gridiron.

 

Wet leaping cheerleaders swoon into a glistening heap, still shuddering from internalized touchdowns scored, carrying swooning and literal torches for the aptly named hero with the quick slow soft strong hands.

 

Torch, swamped with delirious mega-large teammates, greets the charging Zeus exuberantly –- chest thump ballet yes this is your life!

 

As is the custom, the victorious interior linemen will be offered the delicacy of the brains of the children of the vanquished Other –- but will, of course, decline, so as to protect their own offspring from being exotic caviar when the roles are inevitably reversed.

 

For now, the Golemopolis Volts beat the OtherPlace Germs, 28-21 in OT, in the SuperNatural Bowl. Or was it 27-21? I think it’s “Fuck the extra point” in sudden death.

 

>>> 

 

War was outlawed in 2010, common time-stream, on the heels of the notorious warlord heel Gorge War Bosh’s tunnel-blindness, for healing. Peace is held through world-wide refusal of endorsement, a serious psi focus that eventually shatters the skulls of resistant warmongers. A kind of violin-pitched scanner violence –- for an imperfect world. Secretary of Peace Kronenborg is pleased with this new development in group psychic technology.

 

Now the smashmouth sports ratchet-up extreme, no apologies. Presidents still squirming with delusions of grandeur are routinely used as tackling dummies. Martyrs to the almost murderous game, however, receive sensuous TLC in their incapacity.

 

Bodies in motion increasingly work toward indestructibility. Subtler cyborgization sets in.

 

>>> 

 

Warrior round-ball adepts ceased complaining of the potentially deadly razorsphere passes, opting for falconer gloves and cold fire in the eyes. Pro sportsmen assumed the mantle of retracted military might, when the horrifying price in terms of young soldiers maimed and killed –- to say egregiously nothing of TEN TIMES civilian “collateral damage” –- (for officially sanctioned criminal agendas, old Machiavellian rationalists vampire feasting off of naïve young blood) was no longer tenable for a populace not self-righteously insane.

 

So, lucre-rich superstars were no longer about bling, but the warrior ethic applied to strength applied for the actual betterment of mankind, non-ideologically, hands-on, eye-to-eye affirmative, containing the war lust on the hyper grid, hardwood, diamond, track, ice, slope, arena, virtual space, etc.

 

The razor edges silently retract as Rachmaninoff solos a 5-pt. shot –- swish! --- from 200 ft., orchestrated by Byron Lord at the buzzer.

 

>>> 

 

High Himalayan snow leopards dream of distant noises of our seeking.

 

>>> 

 

Player injury on the killing floor. Trainers discern the injury and assiduously search for signs of an inner life. They dig up rage from the casual nightmare’s molecular maw. “Mild concussion and standard suppressed psychosis –- he’ll be fine. Adult diapers and a nifty self-lobotomizing kit will be sent to his rest home if he’s worse in his twilight years.”

 

>>> 

 

The dark object rapidly sliding across the cultivated ice was so small, crowd telescopes were de rigueur. A new breed of perverse fan inexplicably sprouted up that no longer chafed at old school hockey’s miniscule puck on the small TV screen, but embraced microscopy, as if the best –- what do they call ‘em, skirmishes, skuffles, WWE in pads on blades? – would be conducted in some incredibly shrinking quantum kingdom. Telescoped bubble view of micro-puck produced a new thrill of vertiginous euphoria.

 

>>> 

 

The club’s made of titanium. The batter seduced his ‘droid wife with one love tap on her chromium skull. When she revived, she remembered “past lives,” as the tap restarted her microprocessors. The rhino-hide ball comes in 100-mph+ half-way from the mound then stops, suspended. The sky opens, the stadium flips upside down, 66,420 gasp, but are flipped back, right with gravity before they can tumble hysterically. The batter “repents his sins” –- which only means he shook off the terminal cobwebs of sleepwalking mediocrities. The ball arrives in his next lifetime, his swing an aeon of suspense.

 

>>> 

 

I sentenced I to forty years in the wilderness of Mind.

 

>>> 

 

Divine pet from faraway islands. Wrapped up tight and tough and sweet, ready for orgone transfiguration. On the cam she’s intense, fighting for composure. Her heroic armoring fails, she dissolves into tears, her darling firm breasts heaving against her push-up bra. Her glistening turquoise contact lenses enchant. Her cinnamon skin always seems aglow with supernatural desire. She is an exquisite flower of soulsexual essence.

 

He summons her world-class cinematic smile by instant-messaging emoticon heartthrobs of classic virtuality. She stands up, walks back and forth, turns around, sleek feline curvy, jeans and snug top, literally cherry pussy and fine ass, ablaze with interpsychocellular love-lust. Cross-generational cam stares blankly.

 

This virtual pet’s charged with shamanic succubus succulence. Nothing mere or demeaning about “pet.” People love their animal pets more than their “human” dysfunctional intimacies more often than not. They don’t usually fuck ‘em, but sometimes they do.

 

She puts him in a steamy noirish thrill mood just by breathing, 7414 miles away.

 

Her ripe breasts flash Shangri-La, and her mouth opens hungry for lava pearl fountain. Virtual. Prelude to the Real.

 

 

>>> 

 

Happiness: thoroughgoing openly aware compassionate intelligence unto sublime or fiery indifference to states (including happiness) and stages of concern.

 

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Play: 360-degree attention.

 

>>> 

 

May all your obscenities be sexy. Hint: This does not include most of legal, political, business, religious, academic emphases.

 

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Intertwingled paradoxical adventure: Heart-Mind playing human; soul-mind segueing into Heart-Mind.

 

>>> 

 

Hand-to-hand combat, or pistols at forty paces. The guy amicably jumps his friend over some business commitment issues. Or was it a quality-of-attention issue, the demonstration of kept conscious faith, of an evolving sense of meaning differentiation. Much rough slapstick tussling ensues. Wait, various bored Neanderthal’s wanna bet. Said amicable attacker refrains from running over his friend’s long hirsute head with a vintage Ford Galaxy a la Alphaville. But he does bite off a handsome hunk of ear a la Mad Dog Tyson. This corner of cultural miscellanea is celebrated ad hoc as world clocks wonder what the atomic clock is doing and blood flows in rivulets of fate. “I should bite your nose off and spit it on the sidewalk. You’re a zombie fuckwad from Dorkatron City. Unfortunately, my teeth are tired.” Everyone walks away vowing to forget the whole thing.

 

>>> 

 

Some generate fantasy worlds or posit objective heaven, hell, etc. realms. Some generate/report worlds renowned for their gritty consensus realistic verisimilitude. I want to generate prismatic worlds, parallel reality vortices, not exactly Rashomon, ‘cause central event shifts too. Of course, it is as much perception as concretization.

 

>>> 

 

The torch is pulling the runner behind it, a comet and its tail in slo-mo. Mt. Olympus awaits, hosting Billie Holiday, the welder’s guild, your hungry heart, and Torch Ectoplasm, SuperNatural MVP.

 

Immortalized bolts seized from Jove toast your lightning castles in the air, grounded in the incandescent entrails of your attention.

 

Lalala land’s a lila of a long-lost laughing lord.

 

A picture’s worth a thousand words; a word is worth a thousand pictures. Actions speak louder than words in a certain sense. In another sense actions are coded by words, the Word, the multiplicitous magma of language. In the beginning was the Word, in the end the cliché, somebody said. “. . .language cannot be understood as a God-given gift or a free human creation or a tool to be bent to human will, but only as an emergent and semi-autonomous phenomenon, something more like galaxies, ecosystems, and bacteria” wrote Ira Livingston (I presume). Poppa-oooh-mow-mow. Implicitly or explicitly, the Word IS the action.

 

Get your game on.

 

>>> 

 

Game tight/who’s on second?/All right/cue the band/Game tight/highlight beckons/Star-borne promised land/This night could go/into overtime/Hunt after hours/game tight and prime/Game tight/buzzer beater/Long shot/saves the day/Game tight/flows the leader/End zone/bombs away/This night could go. . .Game tight/she is naked/All night/bonfire love/Daylight/we still make it/Game tight/hand in glove/This night could go. . ./Game tight/mortal heartbreak/Soul-mind finds the Light/Game tight/cue the true fake/Buddha/smiles all night/This night could go. . .

 

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