Ubu Roi is the president of the United States, and now the world believes anything is possible.

Scientists have brought pig brains back to life and are testing telekinesis and telepathy on monkeys, calling it "brain-computer interfacing." Political regimes intend to use this technology to invade our minds: reading, writing, rewiring them.

The planet's wealthiest inhabitants are currently researching how to abscond to space in the event that they raze the earth with the cruelty of their dollar, testing rockets near Van Horn and Brownsville here in Texas, so close to our border and to the fascist penal colonies which imprison the undocumented.

Government-sanctioned UFO hoaxes are engineered to convince the public that militarism is good, that the empire is trustworthy, and that a world of fully automated killer drones is not only possible but desirable. So far, this absurd public-private partnership in propaganda and perception management is succeeding in part because the public was primed since childhood by a desperation to believe in the possibility of aliens and in sci-fi's fetishization of technology as the Ultimate Divinity.

We are under constant surveillance, undergoing the blurring of front stage and back stage, existing in states of shallow performativity, expected to market our very selves as coherent static brands for social capital acquisition even in the most private of spheres. We are deep in the dream network, constantly and inextricably engaged in duality.

We will pass through the hallucination of modern life as shape-shifters, and also exit the simulation into the metaphorical underground, where we know about “them” out there, where the sky has turned a new color with unnatural waste.

Surrealism has a way of becoming reality, and today our reality lies fractured, waiting for those attuned to its collective unconscious to weave counter-myths and tell tall tales left out by our myopic imperial narratives, that cultural hegemony which reckons that Texas can only be a sterile cowboy simulacrum, or an urban paradise-wasteland made up of real estate vultures and cannibalistic venture capitalists and exploding chemical plants.

Those counter to the culture cannot remain complacent when constantly accosted. Our communities have cannibalized themselves for too long.

This world, bursting at its seams, is ready to burn brightly with the torches of our cybernetic imagination.

Our Surrealism will grow vine-like over and under any wall that is built around its borders. It will not be delineated by any physical or imposed boundary, but will break through the walls between dreams, memories, and hallucinations. It will reveal itself in any space. The only rule that governs the surreal is irrational. Our life form is beyond a 1 or a 0, beyond a yes or a no, encompassing all genders and none. We are walking interrobangs, supporting the enthusiastic interrogation of any and all ideas. As Surrealists we are constantly shifting, learning and unlearning, by whatever means we can get our hands on.

We are wise enough to know we do not have all of the answers and to distrust anyone who says they do.

We will not give credence to popes who gnash their teeth and tell the public what to do. While not opposed to the rigor of spirit, we are opposed to authorities that shackle our visions with proclamations that there is such thing as complete redemption.

Knowledge is a continuous collaborative construction. The revolution will be a creative process, collectively authored with no constraints and no commands. We are inquisitive and multiplicative, free to contradict one another and free to contradict the ruling order. Surrealism opens a suspended space of self-critical dialogue within existing power structures. With our heartbeats as the only metronome, we juxtapose what each of us understands and creates to yield new and many different meanings and love for the unlimited potential. The world itself is music.

We stand against capitalism and fascism. We spit as pit vipers on the pipelines named "oil" and "school-to-prison," and howl curse after curse upon our “beloved” Texas Rangers, who faithfully sponsored Mexican American genocide when that black pus beneath our soil revealed itself to be, in the eyes of white supremacists, more valuable than the rule of law.

The heart of Texas is an amalgamation of desecrated flesh that pumps with the blood of massacres mixed with fossil fuels. Its piecework body ambles along like a bayou, pushed by these spirits but given no virile vision of its own. It swells with the ghosts of herons who speak the voices of the silenced: we sit on land once populated by different indigenous people for centuries, including the Apache, Caddo, Comanche, Kiowa, Karankawa, Ishak, and Wichita nations. We banish the spectres of speculators who serve only self-fellating histories, those slave drivers warped into war heroes.

Our Surrealism will grow like a motte of oaks, whose numerous gnarled branches will spring out of the eyeholes of Texas that are, in fact, upon you. Our Surrealism will grow and adapt, like the stubborn cacti, surviving sun and society so we may see our way to self-annihilation.

Texas is a ghost, and we are its netherworld, a Texodus of artists, illustrators, researchers, sex workers, dramatists, actors, writers, programmers, musicians, dancers, photographers, filmmakers, psychogeographers, summoners of synchronicities, and architects of infinities.