I got asked to be reminded of what I can’t remember today (today) I see it in my head every single day (every single day) Can’t imagine if I could understand it this way Or in any other way (any other way) We can’t run from it in the wingdings or the webbing (wedding) of the web that dings in the wings The connecting tissues and webs—on the web that we wed in our head— Of pictures and signs, of the passing of times, In the sine waves we surf on, in the web of the bay of day. It’s the wedding webbing of Wingdings. It might not be my B, D… but is D, B for me? Can we say that B is D? And sometimes B is just B? So if we look at the Wingdings on weddings, Can we see the Wingdings of everything we think we can be? B, B, or D? Is it D? Is it Webding, wedding, and wetting in the sea? C? It’s the sea that sees, the sea that sings— Syntax-y, swimming in in all things. It’s semiotic wings and ding-ding-dings. Don’t you get it? Go do Bing. Search Bing! (Bing.) Wet webs woven in the minds that we stroll in— While they trollin’ and takin’ a toll in The threads in our heads (yeah, that red-red thread), Red hair in herring rhymes, All in red hair in lines, In waves of sines, Threads of new-wave, new-world times. Then we lace the interlacing, Inward-facing, Ever-replacing interface inside our tides—of both sides— And lace it up (up up up) In what’s unsaid and what’s forgot. It’s what we’re fed and what’s unsaid, All stuck in our head-head-head. B-B-B is a bubble. B-bubble—or is it double bubble double trouble, Like the Hubble of the mind’s little hub-pub puddle We muddle with in the middle muggle Of the pebble double bubble dub-bub In the dumb mud, dub-dub— Don’t dubstep in the mud. B in the bumblebee—can’t you see? Or are you a Not See? (U not C.) A bride to B?—or a B-B-B, B-B-B, B-D-D—and think. But D-D is the door, Where two pathways meet and greet-greet. And C is our curve of the times, Of the crescent unknown, As we wrestle with the lines, And the arc, and the question, That we cast like a dime, That we throw in the whistle of the wishing well. And then we head, head, head— Where the echoes dread, Of the webbed-out web, Of the intersection’s bled. Of losses and wins, And bays that grin, And dazing, dazing, In the summer-summer sins Of the sun that we sin upon— As we win upon the sins, Of the signs of the times, Like I told you in previous lines. Then we scroll-scroll through the roll-roll Of a line, and picture, And a roll we can barely control-control. So I say it again: B, D— D is a glen, grin-grin, glyph. And it glitches in a gif-gif-gif through eternity. Maybe this… Maybe B is just B, or D is— And it’s also C, In a cipher that we’re cutting through the delight for. Wedding or Webding— Do vows even bind me In the font we recite, In the time and the time—see? Is it misaligned? D or C? B, A, B, C, D, E— It’s all just a, just a, just a decree From the web of the we To the Bee of the me. We wed, and we—we—we— Weave it into three, four tangled displays, And we surf on the sig-nik endry edding to parry em tare em over signs we can solip see solipsiy solipsism see? see? See? See-see? Or C, C, C me? In the solipsi-silly semiotic symphony We sign with our silence— The quiet riot of icons and iron-ons, Stickered on pixels that never existed Except when insisted By wrists that once wrote it, And eyes that forgot what they quoted. Now we decode it backwards: Web to wed to dead to dread To red-thread lines in the alphabet’s bed. We slept on the letters, Got tangled in headers, Married the metadata— But never read the vows better. So we surf—on the e-ink sea, Wading through fonts like fallen debris. Was it Helvetica? Or was it hell-ish-vetica? Was it Comic Sans or cosmic plans? Was it Sans Serif or Searing Truth? Tied the knot with a serifed noose? And ooooh, did you miss it? 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 That ding? That ping? Wasn’t your phone—it was the thing. The one we wed in our heads With the vows unsaid, The one that led Our breadcrumbs back to the thread. The thread—again—the red one, right? Wrong. It’s blue now. And it's uptight. Got updated last night. Patch 3.3.5 Rewrote the glyphs while you were live. [spoken] ...And you wonder why I twitch. Why I glitch through pitch. Why I switch from B to D to see which— Which symbol fits the script That never slipped From the lips that lip-synced The wedding crypt. The altar of alter, The swap in the syntax, The vax for your brain That injects old syntax. We don’t marry people no more, We marry data. We say "I do" to a cloud, And upload our vows to beta. And if that ain’t Webding wedding in the webhead— I don’t know what is, unless it’s B-Bed With a B-side of D-dream, And a remix of me, meme. So toast the bride, toast the groom, Toast the font in the chatroom. Say I do in Unicode. And pray your soul don’t auto-load.
