The button wants to be pushed. It has a force field of power of trembling hands that dare approach it, for fear of interrupting all online commerce instantly.
Monassi is an amber, assymetrical button, with an unpleasantly yet tacky side to the rear, a void of unmixed epoxy resin created by the artist, late at night, after a chariot ride, who all too hastily improvised a button out of too hastily stirred materials. Monassi seemls like a popup alien technology from a cheap movie. Little air bubbles are suspended in the improperly mixed material, along with a pubic hair.
"Might as well add a seashell and snow to make a duckpond landscape within," snorted Blanc, who was currently inside monkletto. "I've casted lead, i can steam bend wood, but i've never spent so long on a single resin button. This'd better be good."
"Monklert, it will be good." Monklert is the name of the persona when Monkletto talks to himself late at night, to the Blanc inside himself.
Monassi wants to be pushed, and wants to feel like an ancient relic, like grandma's face, when finally touched. There's no internet in grandma's house, but memories of freshly washed, old, bedsheets.
Monassi gives you your smell memory back. Like a band of scrolling material, impregnated with different touch sensations: gravel, duck feathers. At such a concert, the audience is invited to approach the band at the edge of the stage, and regain your touch memories. The scrolling touch band is the thin shoreline between the ocean of senses and the land of drinkers.
Monassi is another rocker on this stage, wanting to actuate, yet there is a powerful field surrounding it, the hesitancy, or angst, of other actors to actually trigger Monassi.
Monkletto stepped outside. The clear sun warmed him, and the cafe chatted with itself behind its yarns. Monassi caught some sun and sparkled like honey.
"Maybe the gooey back part will cure in time, in the sunlight?" Monkletto wondered to himself. But it didn't ever really cure, remaining gooey to accumulate a crust of pigeon debris, as Monkletto and Blanc tossed it back and forth outside the cafe.
After speaking for a bit with a grunge dude about last nights chariot rides, Blanc felt down on Monassi, bursting with the trembling of masked emotion, "This button isn't any better than a piece of gum embedded in the sidewalk of a tiny Ohio town."
"Monassi will be great, though, by forming an emotional field by her imperfect electronic materials."
Under the fearless hand of the president, Monassi as button, gooey in the back, creates emotional tension for all internetted Americans, some of them authentic, some not.
The idea of the band of touch sensations, I owe to my dad. Late one night, he was driving me alone in a car, through the mountains of Pennsylvania. He recounted this idea, as one personally beholden to him, that he had imagined as a child. In it, he imagines a musical show occurring on the stage, and at the front lip of the stage, a band of canvas is scrolling that has different materials embedded, so the audience can feel certain sensations on their fingers, cued to the music.
Bonus Poem
Blanc poked in the papyrus.
Blanc attended the conference of detritus painters.
Monkletto is the pharoah, naturally narcissistic.
Blanc teaches authenticity to gilded, but deaf, ears.
Good Blanc is ancient Blanc.
Bad Blanc is modern. Their identities smudge,
Blanc and Monkletto together in a ghillie suit.
Blanc posing in ghillie suit, face unseen, in front of Hanumann's barn.
Ages later, the basement rooms are painted black,
the new youth program is about astronomy.
posters of planets and galaxies cover the walls.
space rock is played there, after a prayer,
micro doses of psychedelic mushrooms are distributed.
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