K.A. Thayer

K. A. Thayer is traveling-sacred through word-tracing dynamogenesis.











They borrowed a pair of binoculars and started taking notes, but they were unable to write so they simply made drawings. These were small drawings done on teabags. They cut the bags and emptied the tea into a drawer full of old photographs.

They remembered Grandma had a great collection of fancy doilies. Grandpa cleaned his ear with a nail. The points never rusted.



Adjust your personal voltage according to the following:

Using the internal transformer that you discovered during your last trauma,
step yourself up to 1Kilovolt, remembering that humans are 98% water.
Touch the wall to your left using the ostrich feather hanging above your head.

Write your name. Kiss the fishbowl.

Empty your pockets of all sand, starfish and nautilus shells. Crouch, then crawl to the exiting portal located past the bumpy floor that reminds one of numb bugbites. Sit just beyond the doom portal and shake your head from side to side until your inner balance has been recalibrated for maximum disorientation. Please excuse yourself from the room, should you feel nauseous. Store your personal energy in the steamer trunk with the “Mystery Spot” sticker.

There’s an elegant wooden-handled lever protruding from the side of a podium 6 crawl-steps from the threshold. This lever controls the flow of electrons within your brain. Take a nap but wake when you hear the sound of shattering glass.
Swallow the goldfish. Close the curtain. Cry.



The front porch swing
More loudly than my lips
When I press them
Against the racing train.