DUBIOUS STRIKES AGAIN!

The hacktivist collective also known as DUBIOUS had struck again, disabling the websites of several law enforcement agencies, exposing their weaknesses and highlighting the severe limitations of their knowledge.

They had fucked with the code so that the websites for the DOJ, FBI, and HSD looked as if an imbecile had violated it with Paintbrush; they had literally defiled the site's integrity, and the violence of the strokes denoted that the fight had gotten territorial.

What to do with DUBIOUS? Most law enforcement agencies had profiles on who the leaders were and how they made their living. The problem was that many of those sought had been living off the grid for decades. And, these technicians were so nuanced, and such virtuosos, that they could pretty much ply their trade anywhere.

Their intimate knowledge of systems could be used as a tool or a weapon. And, that was what made it so hard to prosecute them: they were methodical architects while at the same time double-jointed escape artists. In other words, DUBIOUS had keys for both sides of the door, and how they used the door was completely at the disposal of their discretion.

I have a cousin, Juan Martin; he's some type of cellphone engineer or professor programmer in Barcelona. Juan's from the same jungle province as my mother, but he recently designed some concrete that conscripts your phone into acting as a visual transponder and relaying certain physical data, say for example lack of food in your upper intestine, to the vendors in your immediate digital environment.

Juan found a way to force his phone to scan and divulge whether or not he should be hungry, or could use a surge of sucrose or caffeine in his veins; it narcs on him because people are not to be trusted with knowing when their bodies tell them things anymore.

For example, I doubt whether his brain was not saying to tone it down the other day when he got all megaphone on one of his channels, egging on the efforts of DUBIOUS, the internet maven cadre, and their Denial of Service attacks. If I am not mistaken, the post was a mixture of flaming grammar, capital letters, and adolescent wit.

Something real subtle like:

La REPUTAMADRE K te pario FBI!!!! La informacion es gratis!!! YANQUIS DE MIERDA!!! FUERA DE NUESTRO INTERNET!!! Motherfucker Hijos de Puta! Que DUBIOUS te cage todos los sistemas y te resinde al Tiempo de las Cuevas.

ABEL FOLGAR'S FIRST POSTCARD

I am currently engaged in a Postcard Feat with Abel Folgar. This is Abel's first postcard that I have received. As you can see it was made by a psychotic bouncer librarian; the poem on the backside is titled, Dusty Roads Beg Water. I predict that Abel will take to the roads sooner than later, and the United States will shudder as he traverses its veins. I would have put Abel's poem here as well, but what the hell am I going to sell if I let you read the actual poem. It's like someone's grandmother used to say, if you give away the milk, no one is going to want to buy your cow.

CLANDESTINE DEPTO.

My mother's apartment had not been "marked" by the police for increased surveillance; word had not come down for an unmarked Ford Falcon to circle her block like a bull shark. No order came down for her to be shadowed.

Her address had not been registered at the cuartel, nor had it been the added to the lists the police were constantly smashing together. In a word, she was a nobody, and that suited her fine because of the anonymity being a nobody afforded her.

But, she had gotten to know people in the movement, and she sometimes feigned being a reporter so she could get into lectures for free. She was known to carry a tape recorder as a prop; shortly thereafter, it became her talisman. And once or twice, she even offered up her tiny departamento as a venue for lectures or presentations.

One time she hosted two Cuban compadres from the Administración Postal de Cuba. Because they called my mother, Negra, the two Cubans could pass for her brothers, cousins, or kin. The three of them together raised less eyebrows than my mother alone, somehow.

She had run away from Tucumán to Buenos Aires at 14, home being one of the thickest and at times remote provinces in Argentina's 23-stared province-diadem. On her own, my mother, stood out like a sore thumb; also, she had a mythological pair of gams she liked to flaunt in mini-skirts and boots.

PLANETESIMAL*

why do crazy people always have luggage?
where are they going with so much nothing?
why can't i find that place, and where is my luggage?

how do mountains wear appalling little so unabashed?
where are they going with so much nothing?
why make my delirium look terrestrial when Jove’s pissed?

why parse yellow yarn for cage-free, locally-grown guerillaknitters?
where are they going with so much nothing?
how to stretch jejunely over trees like turtlenecks and tunics?

what engine belch to piston ratio blathering, Exude Acceleration!?
where are they going with so much nothing?
where millions of civilians say, Back Door!, without seeming Borg?

where wattage of queries somewhat supersedes your paygrade?
where are they going with so much nothing?
how interlocutoring towards “sticking” barks Brownian?

how your amperes functioned through the Great Bombardment of Acumen?
where are they going with so much nothing?
were I not an atrocious apology from an excited orbit of self-gravity?

where are they going with so much nothing?
how protoplanets wake rage at dangerous decibels of the Mach gauge?
where are they going with so much nothing?

*Portions of this poem were inspired by the Wikipedia article on "Planetesimals". Click here to access the article and support Wikipedia.

FANATICAL, FANATICODE, FANATIQUILL

The young lady said, your hair,
may I touch it? And I obliged, sort
of swan in an injured, curtsied bow.

She pawed and graded my exquisite locks
and confessed the purse my hair
could fetch in the black markets of the world.

I had been summoned to slay mawfuckers
with my pizazzy Powerpoint for Playas’
and now, like a genie, I could not be rebottled.

The thought of follicle bazaars in Tangiers
or the Sarajaven mob trafficking my now
very valuable head ricocheted in my synapses tanks.

I had been thinking of nothing lucrative at all, nothing
like pure poetry strawberries as large as the heads of Shih Tzus
or contraband submarines forged in the jungles of Colombia.

I had been thinking that I don’t listen to Otis Redding enough
that I take too many scalding showers and don’t leave my hair
the chance to fume the bouquet of my wholly singular odor.

And now I am finally thinking of the young lady, her fingers
comb the epicenter of my vanity, they graze my thick head
my dull, oaken dome from which spectacular beauty glows.