The Hoboken Theorems by Natalie Terezi Rei Watts


1. The baristas at the main street Starbucks are controlled by a Boltzmann brain of their own coffee.


2. The vagabond who stands by the trashcan at the curb from 10 to 5 (nighttime) is a Gray trying to become human by analyzing our waste products and replicating their cellular structures within himself. He has fingers like rolled up dusty cigarettes and a mouth whose musculature shows through the sodden holes in his cardboard face.


3. The gentrification highrise tumor at the north riverside is a cover for a modern billionaire burial ground.


4. The area that looks like a fake suburb is a suburb — by stepping past its threshold you’re transported to Old Hoboken, losing the contemporary reality now slipping behind you, and are carried back into the past on a wave of leaves and smoke and indigenous blood. But the boundaries of this threshold are collapsing, and the Old suburb is parasitized by the new white gentry that burrows into its brickwork.


5. The mayor is trying to steal my gender to create the first Gender Trinary.


6. The deteriorating warehouses along the riverfront are government blackops sites for an Atlantean smuggling ring. They take merdaimons harvested by the Tamu Massif Deep-Tartarean Mining Rig and sell their butchered organs to the richest buyers, using it to fund the CIA’s scheme of excavating Atlantis and putting its ontology to use as a psyop against the deep-sea Old Ones. You can see this is the case from how water bends near the warehouses — it tilts to one side, defying gravity to kneel before a more powerful force. (If you look closely, the Hudson River does so too. More of the ocean builds along Hoboken than Jersey City or NYC).


7. Frank Sinatra was a hyperstitioned entity summoned throughout media to convince people that Hoboken is a site of artistic ascendency — he flees it throughout all of his stories but the city remains clinging to his old skull, the cranium of imagined thought his music contained that Hoboken created and, ultimately, lays permanent control to.


8. The high population density of Hoboken has resulted in heat death owing to people’s body heat being accelerated past the universal threshold. The gentrification is reality’s attempt to counterbalance this warmth, replacing sites of living with sites of ideal, sterile life, where nothing is lived but upper middle-class mundanity (its own form of capitalist entropy by Deleuze-Guattarian antiproduction — much more profitable).


9. The Five Guys on main street was the first victim of this entropy and had to be rendered derelict so its non-local, physicality-dissolving peanut source could be rid from this world [perhaps an attempt to prevent the then-incipient Mr. Peanut commercialized deity from finding a new territory of causality to invade?]


10. I was born in Hoboken. I was created by its dying brick and crumbling history to be a new set of eyes to observe itself, like a microcosmic Anthropic principle for this mile square.


11. Half of Hoboken’s population does not exist. The gentrification is empty. They were raptured into their own buildings.


12. The Grays wage eternal sewer war against the police. Every time the rain comes and the street corners flood their USOs, 680 meters wide in intangible space and 3 nanometers thick in tangible space, slide through the sewer grates and fire their payloads into the police station. These reside in ego-space, and detonate into scintillating sapphire screams of hatred and retribution. The walls are left scorched and bodies liquified with brains like stained glass. I’ve been trying to figure out how to join the Grays but every time I get close I’m torn back by sanitation workers for “not belonging among city waste.”


13. Baseball’s invention in Hoboken was a more successful iteration of the Sinatra meme. The Elysian Fields baseball diamond and plaque is the hypocenter of this ritual.


14. Hoboken was created by the Jersey City heights solely to become future post-Climate Wars beachfront property.


15. The Moon is only haunted within Hoboken, Sinatra’s final curse. Stare at it too long and it bleeds into dissolving silk and crawling Huntsman legs.


16. With the crown of Atlantis in hand and the light of Tamu unearthed Hoboken has been blessed by the Drowned Twins of Cleito for its sacrosanct voyage of blazing, empyrean thalassocracy. When the Climate Wars and subsequent Ontology Insurrections rip the North American surface into rhizomatic gnosis the US government is forced to flee on its underwater naval battleship, maneuvering the entire city to attack from the waves and conquer everything it refuses to lose. Already the base infrastructure is emerging — traffic congestion gestates in Challenger Deep’s Western Pool, blacktop and zoning plans zigzag the hadal territorialities, wide glass windows and faux-marble balustrades belched from architectural teratomas overrunning and gouging the hydrothermal populaces. Arc lamps under 1,086 bar darkness. But the state must wage a two-pronged war, for they are already under threat from below: impossibilities from the chthonopelagic have eaten the chains L-V-CR-FT wrote around them (so much for the greatest anti-Old One psyop in history, I guess) and they lunge out to destroy their captors. Yaldabaoth has been kicked from his throne and the Archons can’t protect his bloated carcass forever. There’s flashes of nuclear fire on the surface and blood swirling through n-dimensional vortices in the deep, but I can’t see any further, because my head can’t contain the future and because apopheniac prophecy through watching two rats fight on the PATH only gets you so far.


17. I am on a remote-viewing watchlist for wanting to kiss an Old One.


18. The city’s own potential cannot stabilize its overexpansion; buildings are returning to their natural states. There was an abandoned warehouse by the north side where MIBs once trafficked merperson meat in exchange for Gray and Nibirian infoengines (buyer unknown) before they all vanished and the site was ringed in fences and barbed wire. I keep finding half-eaten birds and (unidentifiable) entrails there; I think the building might be feral.



First published in
YONQ Issue 4