When people say spring has sprung, they actually mean it has emerged from inside itself. Spring has ejected from its own abdomen through a lovely, vulvic little déchirure in the side. The whole thing sounded exactly like you’d think it would. A sloughing, whining sound then a slap. The spring’s lying there with its limbs in a heap. Steam drifting off its wet body. 

It’s spawning season, baby! Here at the Nass, we’re all autopoetic. We generate ourselves from ourselves, which isn’t to say asexually because we do have sex. We bubble up. We cleave ourselves off mitotically. Then, we get lonesome until we meet a whole bunch of other little messianic autopoets. Must be a mast year. This pond’s getting crowded. 

When I was very young, I had a fish bowl that housed a cunning little betta named Jim Beam, and he felt very despondent, so I bought a snail. They got along great until, in a moment divine, this solitary snail immaculate-conceived a million snail eggs that soon hatched close to a million baby snails. So I came to an ethico-ecological crossroads. Couldn’t release the snails because they were non-native and promised to explode populationally. So I didn’t do anything, and soon, all the snails died. Later on, so did the fish. 

Love per usual, 

Charlie Nuermberger, EIC