Jawbone Says Epistemicide In A Quartet

by Ziqr Peehu

Chris Curry

I

When the jawbone stumbles into my dream, I shriek first and greet later. It doesn’t introduce itself — just leans its 2.8 million years against my bed frame till it’s acknowledged. I stare at it. It stares back, its sockets are empty & the silence is prolepsis. The jawbone gets annoyed. It calls itself orbit — (says 3bodyproblem — says solveit) but it’s a drunk stumbling through zero gravity, teeth foaming at the gums, a rabid dog chasing itself.

II

It’s not a three-body problem; it’s a bar fight. The self punches memory, memory decks desire, and desire falls through the floor. This isn’t anthropology, it’s a cranial crime scene. The mandibular condyle groans like a gear — not gracefully but like a treasure box crowed open underwater. Each wave hits, where the sand is just bone dust too stubborn to let go — now, it’s just hunger. Not the refined kind, but the stupid spite, raw and dumb, a dog gnawing at its own foot just to feel full.

III

Imagine this: a jawbone orbiting a body that doesn’t want it, each spin cracking against the void. Imagine this: a bar fight in space, no gravity, just fists swinging and nothing landing. The jawbone bites down, not because it’s hungry, but because it remembers the taste of what it once destroyed. There’s no physics here, no system — Just a hinge rusted in the open position and a howl trapped in its throat, choking on everything it can’t spit out. each one a parasite whispering: say it, say it, say it. Language didn’t die; it faked its death, ran off, and left this behind — The problem isn’t three bodies — it’s infinity. It’s the way you swallowed everything without tasting it first. I know hunger doesn’t care if the meal is alive. It’s the mess of bones on a dinner plate, but the dead still haunt; they get stuck in your molars.

IV

Stop trying to solve it. The orbit doesn’t exist anymore. The spiral has collapsed. This isn’t anthropology — it’s the aftermath of a car crash where the cars were never real. What remains? The taste of everything you swallowed without knowing, the sky full of teeth falling, the jawbone at the bottom of an ocean no one remembers drowning in. There’s a question somewhere in the grinding of the mandibular condyle that I don’t answer. The dream tilts, the jawbone laughs, and the teeth fall into the open grave of my mouth — all you’re left with is the taste of your own blood, the sick metallic hum of wanting to keep biting down long after there’s nothing left to chew.

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Ziqr is expending much energy on China-USA Post Trump, fountain pens and witch-hunting.