“THE TIN” by w.t.

Eight years ago [in the year 1532] at Dessau, I, Dr. Martin Luther, saw and touched a changeling. It was twelve years old, and from its eyes and the fact that it had all of its senses, one could have thought that it was a real child. It did nothing but eat; in fact, it ate enough for any four peasants or threshers. It ate, shit, and pissed, and whenever someone touched it, it cried. When bad things happened in the house, it laughed and was happy; but when things went well, it cried. It had these two virtues. I said to the Princes of Anhalt: “If I were the prince or the ruler here, I would throw this child into the water–into the Molda that flows by Dessau. I would dare commit homicidium on him!” But the Elector of Saxony, who was with me at Dessau, and the Princes of Anhalt did not want to follow my advice. Therefore, I said: “Then you should have all Christians repeat the Lord’s Prayer in church that God may exorcise the devil.” They did this daily at Dessau, and the changeling child died in the following year…. Such a changeling child is only a piece of flesh, a massa carnis, because it has no soul.

Martin Luther, Werke, kritische Gesamtausgabe: Tischreden


While Tiro was eating his meal, his date got up and went to the bar, then left with another man. The waiter had slid the bill in front of him by the time he noticed, and he promptly declined, then loped to the other side of the world.

The Tin is round and low, people stoop to traverse it. The Tin is not a town or a city or a country or a commune. The Police collected Tiro from behind a vending machine and grilled him. You didn’t pay the bill, they said. I won’t, he said. The Police walked away and consulted one another. Well, what do we do with him, they said. Let’s get an analyst, they said. They brought in the analyst. Continue reading



Instead of composing a short personal essay on my qualifications in attending your technical school, I will reproduce a narrative involving troubles of my health and complications relating thereof with the United States Government.

I suffer from a congenital illness. My mother hands me my medication from the hall. I reside in the water closet, which is also a storeroom, on a hammock just below the transom. The moonlight reveals suspended dust particles above me, and their spiral motion hypnotizes me to sleep. As I said, I suffer from a congenital illness. My body attacks itself in times of stress, and my blood is wont to thicken, the lipids stick and amplify viscosity. That is to say, I am slow. My mother knew I had this illness from a young age, it was simply my illness, we all have some kind of illness, she would often say, I took this for granted. As I made my way through the educational system, I was often forced to produce identification, to fill out documents, to designate my illness. At first, and for some time, I used my proper name, and I was often asked, was this perhaps the doctor or scientist who discovered this illness? And I would say no, that is my name, it is my illness. Continue reading


You don’t need your dick to be too big, said Reo, caring about feminine sexual pleasure is the mark of a dying society. Elm and Reo and Davis and Rogers sat in the Conch, watching light play on the false nacre of the subterranean walls, levitating trash with their minds, and smoking pot. They had all been relegated to this place by their hormonal profiles. Elm yawned and straightened out his fingers again, trying to keep them from curling when relaxed, which he believed was brought on by a youth of playing video games, and constantly beat himself up about. He was going to leave the Conch today, but he changed his mind. What is there to do, he thought helplessly, and there was a twinge of anxiety in his gut at this, but he let it sink into his bog-like stone, and forgot about it. Continue reading