Zachary Hamilton















I am staring up at the old venetian blinds in a Victorian pattern, adorning the ceiling, in the middle of the day.  



A slight breeze comes in through the window and a subtle fuzz of sunlight stitching spots on my arm. I'm alone or maybe the house is full

of us.  



Generic people in pink bunny suits lay out across stale, Bavarian carpet. Mixed into pink batter. All of us line miniature outer-space in a simple geometry, woven, cherished, gradually into a line of angles god makes, i'd imagine, a quantity of Poloroids lay around.

Kittens stand, celebrating, poised in some kind of moons orbit. A small mass of messy hair and stairs completed nowhere, to a featureless, Featherlite  satellite, slightly in the second floor, slightly in the office. The carpet smells labeled but I am biological and adequate enough, to give half a shit. I feel high, and Work  two  cameras   periodically scanning the immediate surroundings. A millimeter analysis left and I detect white linen. Even a millisecond environment right and I venture into viking gas experiments,

slip into a chosen film, inoculated with a rich aqueous nutrient in an atmosphere of helium, krypton, and carbon dioxide. Before living in these traces,  before samples of the atmosphere had frozen in monetary   trees,  topographical maps on paper were laid over abandoned restaurants, condemned schools, figure 8 over the remains of a housing development, and that's how we were doing it, we were taking it back, taking over. But not right now, now it was time to relax.

Microorganism: school boy, a sample Martian soil, slipped through customs in Paris, had evolved. Classified, School boy grew in The mountains of a testing base (the barycenter) in an elliptical orbit around the teacup galaxy.

From kilo-light years away, to spirals, irregulars, concentrated stars, he was no normal computer program, he was a whole computer. Half hard wear, half software, He was built into all of our machines nowadays, not just a piece of equipment.

I put this away in my mind, and think about Olympia. In the wallpaper as ridges of photographed gold, reflecting from large clouds,  in the constellation Doradus, as it pours into the house, a collective mass of light stretching around my sixteen hundred members lying here, hundreds of galaxies I am able to watch bloom, all pink rabbits.

I hope I never have to go outside again. The many double and triple galaxies containing these subgroups of galaxies and those red paper dots through the darkness that follow the kill.

I hope that I never have to be in another one of those overlapping films ever again, 25 million light years, with only a slight concentration to the center. I hope I spill the last drop of lavender tea over

the edge of a mountain far into Barnard's star, leave a flattened smile at the opening of a cave. Examine the possibilities for interstellar communication, and burst red, at the opening of another image. no astronomical factors, just hillside and landscape of ninety three landscape formations. Feet wrapped in a million civilizations, mouth wide in awe. The number to escape from Tau Ceti and this compress that is the name machine schoolboy.

In this Colorado laboratory, I feel my skin carpet as felt rooms, European reflecting mirrors in the walls, laser paws, laying, slowed here, watching the ceiling recede and curl together a house for kittens. Eventually kittens start weaving orange carpet walls to the stairs, felt ceilings of mint green dog tooth pattern floor, blue felt walls located randomly. The Selkirk Rex at one entryway tatters the edges of the felts, with a quick, jilting, little paws swipe, digging deep into the woven floor.

Three tiny tigers in white stripes, with long eyebrows that curl up with the ceiling. Playful, wild fearsome eyes, sticking every way with hair. They rummage through gray mats of felt as I lay in symmetry, bathing sun burned dollars in arms, passing through the air of my window.

The Selkirk Rex of gray and orange felt lays in simple geometry bath tub full of sun and dollars, passing through overlapped dollars, gelatin tins full of sky, through four panes of green latex. I blur near the foreground.


Before grade school

Wrapped in monkey bars, I find my (art) very quickly. From my neck, downstairs, again saturated with pipes, little legs of twigs and semen of rats, my neck is out of proportion, where I reach a week, I am the tree fused with the data, surrounded by a beige flower backdrop. Concept mapping, coding sources? Huge, wood jungle gym.

This thing sounds funny in our collection of heads and comfort , a momentum of sand, acid in oil, heads under feet. SCARED OF THE BLANKETS, my eyes scanned by angels / asleep again, in the attic, the boat, the crane, the birds on the wire. Land is a turtle on its back, from legs to hair land to the monkey bars, jaws closed, to ground— between mare Nectaris, stuck oceanis, from the langrenus bottle,

painted to a central peak, believed to be opaque, flat, pouring out the crater Clavius. Substance,frozen glass of memory, layers up sawdust, milk floor winds through someone else's name. Radio waves pass, Ultraviolet, X-ray, ground based observations.



“Are you okay?”

Surrounded in monkey bars, I taste willow, rust the green substrate inside a chorion system. Gold leaf moss– filtered– phalanges formed by the leaves to my tongue– nutrients enter teeth, fabric fungi fingers searching out evil in the digestion cells. Fingers, mold, diffuse elbows,  searching digestion. The sawdust sketches of component sugars and complex carbohydrates absorbed by the mold. Pictures of a venus's flytrap in action (left) phase contrast micrograph of a young paramecium caudatum, climbing from a fall that seems to have broken some piece of his nutrients, his amino acids.

Lying small pocket, tranquilized in B cells, and lymphocytes, damaged in drugs,I  make out puzzle pieces reflecting from a water stained roof.   First, an air-passage stencil dilating the Sagittal crest  Isaac

and the feature itself, the number tendency results forming into the milk chocolate letters: "Are you okay?"

Isaac, get up, are you okay? These are the words a cattle brand has dug into the gold foil of the milk chocolate wallpaper. I grab the teal shag carpet, pulling myself up. Pieces of it tear out.

The stairs; a vile creature standing before me—

“Isaac!” This milky, white substance screams through liquid, its face is of Maine Coons and its eyes flicker through me;looking through me, followed by a ripping sound, from its mouth,used to make a flat print on newspapers. Sacred disappearing and the huge thing has me in the odd shapes of an upper-case sentence, that is cut in half. All smiling and carved and broken boards of the carpeted stairs, carving through it, the peeling back the steps in a broken blur.

The Maine Coon mask falls,to expose a traditional

head dress: Native raven. Trying to force my way

out of this monster's hold,I try throwing myself over its giant shoulder; over its furled hairy arm.

Torn up steps expose the arms tongues, guts, and legs beneath.

Broken floor, ripped carpet, a spewing of body parts from the splintered wood and an infinite laughter melting chocolate through gold-foil wallpaper: laughter as another language.


Victorian pattern closing over all walls in the house: chocolate that is now being branded by

cattle prods in an old English text.

The walls melt from their rhythm. We are now in the attic. I’m carefully set in a school desk.

The creature hunches over the attic door, holding it in her huge hand, as a dolls house door. Soft with its huge grip, the mask of Elvis Presley pokes beneath the traditional native head dress.

She is brief with the lock and frozen, pressing the ear (the layer of masks) to the crumbling attic door. One of the eyes squirms inside:

suspected movement on the ground floor.


The monster pulls it open suddenly, half morphed of creatures, reaching the aspects of a fiber optic bat, a small la-perm, Maine coon, Selkirk Rex, Savannah, Ragamuffin, and then carefully to the broke steps an oriental cross-bread house cat. Peter-balds turn in their tracks, peering at me, before stepping to the downstairs.

I can smell the cats congregated in the house; the familiar meow of the Maine coon followed by a record spinning old time music.

The attic door slams closed and I fall from the desk into a vortex, a cataract, a cortex; no, no, just a puddle on the floor: a blood water.

I rest my hand and accidentally rub some on my face as it drips over my mouth into the cotton of my t-shirt.

The door opens again; a kitten the size of my fist wanders up to me, sitting in the blood I'm seen bending, overlapped to pet her soft, white

fur. Spilling some through fingers, a liquid, her blue, crystal eyes flicker up.

"Your pretty." I say, wide eyed.

Scowling, little Rex jumps away, running the mutilated steps, downstairs.

I get up, walk out– landing, peer over the railing. Kittens gather at the fireplace, dancing around the room. A party with a record player, old time music, trumpet and washtub bass; orangutan piano.

Chuckling, I reach the steps, where arms, legs, and tongues have been are carpet created illusion

of stains – water damage.


A black cat, a little York chocolate, circles around the pack. Meowing as it knocks over

lanterns, it looks up on me, sitting in the landing. Runs up at the same time morphing species and landing on my right shoulder.


Welcome home.

I walk slowly down the steps. A bit of his language branded in the foil of the walls.




the sun blends down

into the


following the crooked gutter

of the Gothic houses,

I wander through


dying forest,

watching oranges in the sky

rot away

and turn black.

With Toots, chocolate York/ raven


Upon my shoulder, I am clothed in raccoon skins for warmth

Looking back to the front door of the house

Where kittens poke their frail heads from a kitchenette,

                      they are looking long through dirty

                     pane glass windows


The breakfast nook.

I notice them meowing in a worried manner.

a tempest is coming into town

from the worlds away,

Taking their friend

and brother

        Tooty Mewp

away from them.

The dollar bill trees are menacing funny faces

the two raccoon and Morpheus cat cannot bear to look  the faces are so funny.

Everything in the forest remains


A glitch crosses chest level,

                sections of the trunks disjoin


and then back

into place.

Walking near a line of condemned houses

descending into an old creek,

I catch the scream from within

One house

near the end of the line,

Followed closely by the sound

Of a whistling approach

And then


Dollars rustle in the fauna

A tweaked hearing-aid at highest volume

is plugged in.

                     The silence is growing        loud in my    hearing-aid.

I cannot bear it, I cover my ears,

holding the         rabbit gloved         hands

hard over my head, squinting my eyes,

staring down at the ground as the         glitch     cuts.