Fiction

Drops

6

In the first days, after the early warnings had passed – noticed but not acted upon – the movements were slow, almost lethargic. The seconds drifted by, turgid streams choked with moss and algae. Without fail the first counts of dawn clicked their heels and turned sharply about, facing backwards for greater mobility, as they had been told to do repeatedly in the academies. Afterwards, the proper agencies were notified, leaving any fault that might come up in their hands. Of course the documentation was lost, and the files misplaced – no one would take responsibility, or even admit the fact of the error. In the recesses I stopped and walked around shallow semi-circles inscribed with ancient letterings (about which one day I would begin to wonder), frantically trying to lay waste to the gardens that sprouted around me – the furious growth was not without plan, or reason, I knew. I was happy to see such profusion in times of scarcity and drought. Without looking up I knew that there would be birds of different sorts stalking insects, as well as strange farm implements, whose purpose eluded me but which still possessed an eerie beauty. Although the time came and went repeatedly, I protested in a loud and vigorous voice that there was no more, that I had finished and could give nothing else, to which only shouts and peals of laughter responded, from quarters I did not recognize easily. All of these events of course came about, in a matter of speaking, without pause or waiting, asking only small commissions which to me were nothing short of miraculous.

It was against nature, I argued, vainly, trying to believe my position but seeing already the flaws which would allow it to be torn into pieces by any opponent who cared to take the little time such a task would require. Words were beginning to slip out of my control, taking on lives of their own, or so it seemed, as I did not want yet to take on the full measure of responsibility I could see waiting for me around the bends and corners surrounding the houses and shops without which there could be nothing. In the queerly appointed windows and door frames stood merchants of antiquated harmonies and deaths, offering bargain rates if only we would step inside. Drawn like a fly to jelly I stopped, again and again, until there was no more time for anything else, even quickly planted kisses under arched roofs and vaulted floors. Listening took on qualities better suited to surreal landscapes of melted clocks, cheaply turned out in countless numbers for yet another set of red eyed wonderers. Generations passed in this manner without protest, although now and then there were mutters of discontentment – always of course without any real object. I followed lines here and there, as the reflections and illuminations caught my eye. In the beginning I promised myself there would be an end, if only to help smooth things over, like a good host at an uneasy dinner party. Holding trays of delicacies high over my head I wandered through the aisles asking here and there if everyone was satisfied. In the end, I sat wearily, stretching out my toes in the small vestibule where I was sure no one would come except by sheer accident. My shoes sat to the side, waiting further command, content as well to breath in the lightly perfumed air kept in condition by banks of generators and pumps. The floor under my feet throbbed, offering distractions to be accepted at will, then writhed slightly – the patterns of the carpet formed wheels spinning endlessly against backdrops of silver and gold lame.

I remained seated, sipping on a glass of cognac that had appeared by my side during a moment of intense preoccupation. With that we left matters, my feet clad in well made socks, toes twitching about in a certain carefree manner reminiscent of the shying of young horses. Thin columns of smoke trailed up over my shoulders, into waiting air-conditioning ducts leading I did not know where. Despite the slow pace I was not bored, nor seeking entertainments for their own sake. In the marches and crooked patterns that lined the floor surrounding the carpet I watched windings and unwindings turning to more abstract geometries finally when all else failed. There was enough time, but little more, I knew, eager to carry on even as the day chimed out from across the hall where the porters generally sat sipping sherries stolen from the liquor cabinet facing the antique mirror on the outside edge of the room. Without a doubt I could have said something, but thought too highly of their activities to jeopardize what was for me rapidly becoming a rewarding relationship – good help was, as often observed, hard to find. The best sherries, anyway, were kept under lock and key, and were handed out only now and then, when occasions demanded a slight boost in moral.

In the middle of claustrophobic canyons wound narrow streams filled with toxic heavy metals. Over the dark spaces that defined its borders sailed buzzards and vultures, waiting for their moment to come – not caring which moment, which placed them at least one step beyond me, as far as I was concerned. Without fail the alarms tolled on the hour, insisting on placing themselves at arm's length before going on about their business. I sat in feather stuffed hammocks spouting propaganda of various sorts until finally my mouth swelled into a monstrous replication of the snout of an orangutan, about which I had read a little in school, but which I had never of course seen in real life. I painted quaint postcards to send in the evening mails, afraid to think of the cost. In the twilight hours I watched insects fly around the mosquito netting I had installed earlier that week, well satisfied with my labors. Without holding onto the shards that lined the walkway I moved against armies of infinitesimal beings evolving into forms defined only in the purest metaphysical treatises. Taking the early movements of dawn into account I planted trees needing no water and sat back, puffing happily on non-existent pipes (seeing as I was not a smoker) waiting for the first signs of rain, at which I immediately tore the young stalks out by their roots. Sending telegrams and next-day package express letters was of no help, although of course expense was no object.

Standing once again over the hills that crossed the landscape in warmly furrowed rows I turned and began a methodical march through the sand and dried grass. Without meaning to offend or misdirect I held back the first of many sighs, not wanting to create more room for misunderstanding than already found time and energy to roost around my hands, tired and pale as they were. By the middle of the day the first worm had made its appearance, offering neither blame nor condolence but sympathetic just the same. Seven more followed, making for a total of eight. I kept careful count, holding one finger out at a time until there remained only two free, or none if one did not count the thumbs as fingers, as some maintained was proper. Against these undulating leviathons of the deep I said insincere prayers, wanting in actuality nothing else than to be seized brutally and then to be dragged down into the netherworlds where today only legend and fantasy find root. I knew better, of course, having held the dark and sulphurous pit in the palm of my hands, watching the burn of daylight cast dim shadows across the pitiless realms of tormentless striving and furiously screaming flames out of which rose all that would soon be held sacred. To keep in the frost I sailed across many seas, then oceans and lakes – rivers as well – until one day there rose before me shadowless dreamworlds of polished stone. The ten commandments were the first rules to break, and the last to stand firm and proud as clear renunciation of the evil that frolics within the heart of one and all, making alive the dead matter and frozen ambitions of slaves, puppets, and masters alike – in true equality here at least, if nowhere else.

In the intricately carved sculptures that line the streets the first and last name is silence. Holding each and every stone cold against my chest I suck the first of many bloodless kisses from the faces cut out in harsh relief. Ready still for undeclared assaults I pry loose from the insistent hands the last vestiges of dignity befitting a dying race. Without promise or appeal the verdicts fall on deaf ears, unwilling to heed the voice of the court, pretending the hubbub surrounding the proceedings is the sole cause of their incapacity. Holding hands firmly planted against the strong winds and tides that pierce trees with straw the angels of mercy stand idly by while rioters burn and pillage to their hearts content. Despite the strength of all those holding firmly against the last margins of despair, the cracks loom larger by the minute, ready soon for change of some sort, although what kind exactly remains to be seen. I stand before armies saying neither yes nor no but wanting a moment to think things over, nevertheless. Slow winded surges course through the narrow channels defining territories once again up for dispute and bloodshed by the bucketful. I can say nothing, and prefer to keep this voiceless reason at bay for yet a little longer, knowing at once that this simple wish is surely the most impossible of all things.

To take only one example: the angry voices that fill the air and thrust themselves into our rooms until the only choices are bad and getting worse. To pretend to watch and hold hands together to gods long past dead can only be thought the most ludicrous of all events, but still goes unchallenged, indeed even approved of in the higher circles around which prowl long winded senators praising the glory of the flag and the free world through which every word delivered here finds its nascent ascents to the starry clouds filled with dreams of silver and gold and cold hard cash by the van full. There is neither turning nor returning, only the glow of daylight striking faces worn with work, without the benefit of multiple facials and lifts around the eyes and upper mouth. Sliced to perfection we carry the pieces in paper bags, whipping them out with undisguised pride at the slightest display of interest, never noticing the faces recoiling in terror at the sight, afraid to voice the repulsion that fills the inner recesses of the last days of better times. Surely there are offers beyond which there can be no negotiation. So it was said at least, although today such a claim has a questionable ring to it, as if the doubts were carrying off too much of the victors' spoils to make the fight worth the effort any longer. Not afraid to hold my nose I walk slowly through the most morbid displays of putrefied flesh, knowing that the first goes last then falls to his face in abject worship before offering his services as principle whore for all kings to come.

Seeing no further signs or empty blocks around which are piled late model cars and vintage washing machines still said to function if cared for properly I select nothing, finding the inside of each rusted cylinder carefully honed for the worst possible distribution of forces, guaranteeing a safe outcome for the kind of people we are always warned about when young, then later taught, in a bizarre twist, to worship blindly, carrying them about on our shoulders when already we have more than enough problems. I whisper into universes filled with silicated sands worn through dead cities and stiff roads of ill repute, hoping against all hope for echoes into which will fall some tears and the eyes of gargoyles retained only for their beauty. In the end the forces have all mustered as if by chance, then divided into slowly splintering groups of genocidal political and religious orders, the likes of which have unfortunately been seen all too often to be considered flukes or one time wonders. Quietly holding out against such overwhelming odds I sneeze, as I am wont to do when faced with an unexpectedly strong light, then walk around the perimeters, wondering if it is really true that their boundaries can be made to stretch and expand like a spherical rubber band in the hands of a malicious child.

I call for liberation but the schizophrenics laugh outright, calling in return my cry nothing other than sheer lunacy, born out of an ignorance more pure than new snow. I am humiliated, and go back to my warren, chastised but not willing to so easily give up on my dreams. Without seeing the careful selection going on, I stand by the thoughts I claim as mine, sometimes wandering into fields I call original, although this surely must be the most absurd claim ever to lay claim to a right to life, let alone liberty, freedom and the pursuit of happiness. I follow small animals after they leave their holes, pleading with them to explain to me what I cannot learn for myself. Without further ado they turn and laugh, then go on their way. I must admit to a certain sense of failure, having been taught from an early age the innate superiority of the human animal, albeit a dethroned and entirely humanized beast – making perhaps matters all that much worse, I reflect glumly before watching its tail vanish in the bushes by my side. I suppose, I reflect calmly, I should be grateful for this unwanted advice, but feel only emptiness – a fault, again, of my upbringing, since it is in the expectation that the emptiness lies, or rather as the opposite face of expectation's coin. One day, I muse while pushing my way through tall grasses reaching at times past my shoulders, I will come to understand the words I say. Until then, of course, I am doomed to repeated mistakes, and fantasies by the dozen. Perhaps there is nothing more – the walls and buildings only an elaborate ruse designed by no one for no purpose but going on anyway. I am glad to live in the bosom of such humour, for without it I might grow bored, withering into shades of nothingness destined for the dust and sands of yesteryear. I raise a glass to the pranksters and mad seers calling out through the first and last moments of eternity, hoping for more wine to toast the new day but caring only slightly to see my glass refilled. Burnt sand frosts over in candy colored shades of orange and green, leaving behind necklaces draped with the strong smell of yesterdays lovemaking.

I have known for years the secrets out of which flow the first and last moments, but have kept quiet, not knowing the right way to go about expressing myself. The first of a series of vague glimmers began to flash in a dim series, with parts and indeed entire sequences removed by invisible hands, sometimes with great of force. Although there are never more than a handful of gospels to call our own a handful is generally more than enough to keep us content, hands pawing through the dirt and refuse of yesteryears and futures not yet born. To shout out – Liars! – would be childish at best, and foolish at worst. Voices work against and for each other, hands and factories and pipelines and shipping and all the rest through which our daily lives are fed and processed with something approaching a crude efficiency. It is in the words of a thousand thousand taken to the third then fourth degree that the final word lies, and it is in each gasping breath and wretched psalm spit upon unswept floors that the meanings assemble and dissemble at seeming random – but again, a seeming that does nothing to encourage doubt or speculation, and much to allow the free flow of suffering and pain to go unhindered. All agents, pro and con alike, dip their hands in the same troughs, and bleed the same blood. It is then small wonder that they think the same vile thoughts, time after time after depressing time, until one has to begin to think that it is simply in the nature of the beast to think so, and the utmost exercise in futility to resist such tides. I stand alone, linked arm in arm with the hands of those around me, terrorists and disciples alike, waiting only for the seas to part as was promised in the good book, realizing too late it will not happen. The destinies of better men than I (and there are so many I hesitate to even venture a count) rest in graves marked RIP but little else; I cough in respect, then move on, wanting only the life I began with, before I was born and in the innermost recesses of spaces left untended for want of better soil, and waters fresh for the taking. Given up for dead I sit across the table from fresh faced converts to the newly risen cults of the dead and want to take them by the shoulders and rattle their heads until their brains begin to approximate something I can with pride call at least a distant relative. Until that time – never to come sadly but there always as a wish to add, drop by precious drop, to times taken up with themselves to an unheard of degree – I sit rocking, first one way, then the other, watching as the chickens scratch out a meager income from the sands and dry brown dirt caking the courtyard in front of me, fanning the flies away with a dust covered newspaper delivered only yesterday by a harried state worker of uncertain lineage.

Without fear I wonder what there will be to do, but am assured by the tax attorneys when they call on me at unwelcome intervals that the loss is deductible, indeed desirable. Not knowing what else to do I offer them coffee and stale biscuits, which they gratefully devour (as if they had not eaten for days) while standing around my room uncomfortably. One of them, who I know from prior experience has illusions about being something of a handyman when it comes to medical questions, recommends an enema, although why and what for I am not able to say with any certainty. Perhaps there are reasons for my obtuseness, but for the moment I prefer to think it is he and not I who is failing to communicate properly. Ushering them out with polite goodbyes I whisper to each as he leaves promises to send some business their way when business on my end picks up, Each cheers noticeably at my words, uttered only for the sake of politeness, as if I had promised them their hearts innermost desire. Wanting nothing more to do with such matters I step back into the coldly calibrated optomitron and place my fingers firmly against each side of my nose, until a few drops of blood appear in each nostril – precisely as the manual, incidentally, said they would. I wait to see if there will be more, but the first are also the last, as I notice tends to be the case in modern industrial societies, although where such a thought comes from I can only begin to guess – eons of work sucked in like candy by a malnourished baby, perhaps, or the doctrine of the mean espoused with such fervour by those who suck the very life blood out of the smallest steps taken by two legged animals whose farts merely reek a little bit more strongly than those of their ancestors – small reason for pride, but reason enough when little is called for, I suppose.

To calm myself I send for instant photo prints, guaranteed free from defects or my money back, then reconsider, realizing I have as of yet no camera, and, even worse, no desire to own one. I watch the mails anxiously everyday, afraid to miss the call of even one moment's excess, then step over the corpses that have grown out of all reasonable bounds overnight, in between the fourth and sixth hours of morning, when all is said to fall across the waist and belly of god for the good of mankind if nothing more. Satisfied, I belch out gases and aromas fit only for kings, presidents, and prime ministers but destined instead for chambers filled with the dead and dying. It is with little interest I stand then sit in repeated progressions leading to the tabled plateaus promised by statesmen of an earlier age, unable to decide between one position and the other, but unwilling to let my indecision be known by the population at large. I carry bags filled with vegetables and fruit and make promises I – or, if not me, then another holding my name and identity cards – am destined to break. Without pausing for even a moment I know there is no possible way for me to see so clearly into never existed futures but still persist in the habit. Taken to the extremes, I suppose such behaviors could be fatal, which is something at least to consider, all other devices failing to carry out their duties as demanded by an unruly horde assembled for no good reason in the towns and cities we call – without fear of contradiction – home.

By the light of the first moon we call and bay with weres and vamps of all colors and sizes. In the frost we burn with cold hard flames, in the summer months that linger at times forever it seems, the call goes for sleep and quiet nights in small towns with no names. Holding my hand over a fire I wonder if there are others in this oddly contorted land of small houses and hidden streams out of which pour fish and wildlife by the bushelful. I cannot help but think that there is nothing but dreamy fabrics out of which are torn fantasies and directed movements called at better times dance, and even better nothing at all. I sound alarms and ring bells for the pure joy of hearing the quiet collapse of sound that accompanies each toll. Crossing over the first of many lightly fed streams I stop at the same tree many others have before and feed my mare, then look up with surprise, not having had such a beast before, and not knowing, I realize with a start, the first thing about its care and upkeep. Of course in dreams all is allowed; this, however, is not a dream, and the horse is there in front of me, prehistoric as ever, its giant jaws rotating smoothly as it chews grain from the feed bag I have somehow managed to put over its mouth. Drawn in by the light of the fire that burns to my left, small eyes glint out morse coded signalings to copatriots invisible unless I turn my head, a motion I am leery of making, since to do so would leave my front uncovered. Spoken softly as possible my words still create deafening booms in my ears. The horse goes on munching, taking apparently no notice of my ramblings, an action for which I gave grateful and heartfelt thanks, to no one in particular. The air around me vibrates slightly in response, as if there were giants to my left and right posing as hills, but in actuality watching my every move so as to keep me from hurting myself.

I look down to examine again the manual but find it has dissolved completely, leaving only a few specks of dust, which soon blow away in the mild breeze making its way across the valley floor, towards places unknown. There is a sense of relief, since there can be no more misunderstandings or deceptions. The cross-sectioned vertices stand in complete relief, outlined against the shadows and hazy twilight that follows the road past its last mileage marker. Taken as a whole the day is good, if it can be said to make any sense to say such a thing – days being only days, and good and bad being only ideas, and not very good ones at that. A clear eyed wanderer casts shadows which make him jump with fright. Smiling at my mental machinations I find the words fade as does the wanderer, back into the mists which fit him best, tailing him like a wedding procession straight into the pits of self-imposed purgatories out of which few can climb. Still the effort is good, paying handsomely it is promised and then fading back into obscurity – the final resting place, after all, for all good men.

Taken as a whole the rapid turns motivate forces beyond comprehension but still present in our every notation and observation. For I have not yet given up my duties, although I am not exactly clear as to how I am to take the new state of affairs. I do not want to sink into daydreams or childish speculations – mediums I hope I can say I have outgrown despite the current craze for relocating these elements in the hazy outlines of candles mosques and immaculate steel and mirrored glass cathedrals over which so many have toiled for so little. In movement after movement solemn symphonies pound out eerily foreign rhythms, sounding uncomfortable sensations I have never known I had, and am still unsure about because of their freshness. Not wanting to complain I hold my tongue for a few moments, waiting to see what the others say before going on the way. The words as well are hazy, unwilling to give clear indications, only hints and veiled clues over which I pore night and day, insisting to myself that with only a little more work I can break the code, which cannot possibly be more complex than me, doubtful as that proposition might sound to untamed ears. Still, there are moments when there are no doubts, and no demands, only silent excess and motionless pleasures over which the church has little to say.

Spotted one day by the side of the road lies a dog bleeding, crawling slowly in a vain attempt to find a place to die in peace. I watch, wanting to help it, but not able to put it out of its misery. To the west smoke rises in a lazy plume, signalling the burning of more fields of rice and wheat. The roads before and behind me melt into pools of shimmering liquid tars while my feet dance to avoid burning too badly. Inside of small spaces are even smaller ones into which are shoved the remnants of christmas dinners and abandoned houses meant to keep the first of many children happy at least until an early retirement, where all expect them to move to Florida despite the danger posed by tropical storms. The misery will never cross from behind the screen after all. Ten solemnly dressed men cross themselves then kneel for several hours in front of graven images cast from cheap plaster-of-paris but managing to fool the eyes nevertheless. By the side of the mantle lies a cross and shelves covered with gold cloth offered only recently to members of the laity on special discount. The stock sold out in a matter of minutes, in what could only be called a stampede of priests, deacons, and some lesser church officials. Over the courthouse a cloud burst and covered all standing near with a thin sheen of oil, washed off in a moment by the strong burst of rain that followed. By the dozen eggs sprouted wings and formed protest marches against their living conditions, ending once and for all the illusions held about their infertility.

In an age that vomits out signs then studies of signs then nothing but sand and dry eyed tears such events did not merit notice in the evening press although one or two talk shows gave them brief mention. Sinking like lead in water the graves sucked in the prosperous and poor alike until all across the land stalked the angry eyed followers of dead apostles who never managed to get it right despite all the strongest admonitions of their leaders. Sending telegrams had by this time grown so obsolete that they were discarded as junk-mail by mailroom clerks everywhere, until the dew faded and fell into oblivion. To talk about the fees, debts, and costs was a matter for laughter but was not and never would be taken seriously by ministers of peace trained only in the finer points of combat and strategic advantage. Taken off guard I examine my hand and find new patterns wearing through the skin into the bone and fibrous tissues surrounding them on all sides. Not to fight or even offer token resistance rings strangely in my ears; I am not sure whether to run towards or away from such prospects, but know also at once that there is no question of choice or free will. It is in doing odd dances over fires burnt low then extinguished with never ending streams of steaming urine and water by the bucketful that the first and last elements are taken into bonds of tireless grace and beauty as was promised on the first day, only today we all know nothing can be good or easy, or had without violent confrontation and the destruction or at least disruption of lives by the truckload. Despite this well indoctrinated knowledge I stand at odds with a world that will never give even one inch when it comes to the final questions against which all must ram their heads until the crimson stains the floor and wall in crude imitation of the latest fads of self mutilation to sweep across the art world.

There is no amount of knowledge or preparation aside from the smooth unwinding and recombinations through which my every respiration, or thought (the multitude I make one merely by giving them a name) mutates and dissolves, constructs and reconstructs in the most loose of all disciplines, with an error rating unheard of in any of the simpler trades. I strive for the moment when each separate turn stands alone, kept in stasis by the breath held for endless moments against a day and torrents of pain and laughter in varieties bought and sold at auctions across the land while the profits fill the airwaves with worlds of well warned disciples pawing at oversized bushes for disinfection or at least illumination. Fried by the bucketful prawns sizzle and blush with embarrassment, hoping the spectators will look elsewhere during their death throes. By the light of silvered moons kept suspended for the delight of tourist eyes everywhere above mountains split apart at the seams for optimal viewing pleasure we dance slow waltzes with hands glued into eternal bonds I can only with the greatest dismay surrender. Torn fabrics swimming lazily through areas folded and then put to the side flap in the breeze, suggesting nothing less than ways better lost but stolen and returned with alarming regularity by forces far beyond my control. I stand to one side, trying to gain some perspective while waiting for letters that will never come, and which, if they do finally arrive, speak only in tongues growing more foreign by the year. Offers made and broken lie in wait in bushes crossed and wired by lightly armed guerrilla forces trained in the art of gourmet cooking by the best chefs in London but barely able to pull the pin out of a hand grenade. Against these walls I offer only children wailing and crying and throwing their arms about in wild confusion, then the silence of sleep through which I know one day I will find ways to pierce suns and daggered eyed stares of which I can know nothing beyond the hints thrown across the table at random intervals.

Placing thoughts to the side the gaps yawn in a sometimes terrifying manner, out of which sprouts chicken wings priced far below the market rate. The floors sweep themselves in automatic paroxysms of futility and dismay then quietly mop their tears away, praying for lentils and broken dishes by the dozen. In the spaces between electrons and protons stand gaps larger than the solar expanses but still we have not the time, nor the inclination, to dissolve our lives into such matters, preferring the choices handed to us by our forefathers (and mothers tucking apron strings behind their backs), locking their hands across gaps filled with large loaves of unevenly baked bread from which arises the most sensuous of all aromas. By the light of roman candles the sparks and burning metal ignite then flash into brief spells of nothingness. By warm bedsides covers pull back to reveal mysteries still to this day unclear to me, despite anything I might do, say, or wish – the difference lying in the hormones that flood my brain with extracts of the divine, without which the mundane would grow larger by the minute. Inside of such binary systems I stretch and relax, not wanting to go on, but also, at the same time, not wanting to stop. Somewhere to the left of one and the right of the other, I hear voices whispering in polyphonic waves, bursts out of which sense will one day be made, but for now a time held against our chests carefully as insurance against troubled days ahead. The words take chosen routes, assigned at birth then fed on a steady diet of worms and broken hams until grown strong and tall. I offer nothing, take nothing, give nothing, receive nothing, and sit back well satisfied with the arrangement. The void recedes until it is nothing more than an infinitesimal point, shrinking rapidly away into pure nothingness, out of and back into which all goes eventually, after having completed the assigned routes and circuits about which the newspapers will write simplistic articles tailored always for the ear of the layman.

In the wide spread thighs around which tongues dart and play small children stop to stare, somewhat dumfounded but willing to learn nevertheless. I step to the right, then back, first around in circles designed by the highest quality structural engineers, then through loopholes taken for granted by the clergy. Taken as a whole, the scenario is slightly gruesome, leaving foul tastes behind at odd intervals about which little has been reported in the better papers. Sucking in long gasps of fresh air, patients aligned in rows of between four and eight step lightly over shadow boxing renegades – demons of earlier times. Taking numbers is considered an acceptable alternative to long waits in line, giving rise to a mushrooming industry of ticket machines. As if by magic the first of many dawns spreads the first doses of fertilizer across a landscape worn down and tearing at the seams. I am able to report on these events with relative impunity, since my words will be torn into small pieces then scattered over an ambivalent landscape. At night I reproduce continuous replays of stories stolen in other days, playing out with tiring regularity. In the eye of large caliber gun barrels the demons quiver, not sure what the affect of so much lead at once will be on their systems. Tired of sucking blood draculas line up for bit parts and multi-year contracts. It is not so much a question of giving up the past or future but of standing, simply, nothing more. That is enough, of course, since I do not relish the idea of joining any clergy, no matter how appealing the benefit package is. Guaranteeing problems, of course. My dreams will fit into hands molded one day out of clay, the next flame. To choose one or the other is beyond me, and would besides lead to great boredom.

Kept to the last words draped in oddly flavored alcohols train their sights but forget even the first rules of good conduct, dancing about in negligees when the weather calls for thick sweaters. Draping curtains as makeshift coats over their shoulders I hustle them away before too many of the neighbors see what is happening. The gods grant brief pardons, before which they had ruthlessly seized letters at random and held them hostage, taking up too much room was the charge in its specific format, although of course I was not allowed to read it. Excerpts were clipped and handed to me on silver trays; I struggled with the terse verse but could find no meaning, which was, I suspected, exactly as they had planned it – merely give me enough to silence me, then keep me suspended from wooden beams thrown roughly over brick work I would rather not trust my life on. I watched my collapse as if examining an early print of a silent film frame by frame, but could do little beyond note its presence. I wanted to give flowers, dresses and fine shoes but had nothing more than too me tired words and caresses I was not sure could touch home. Calling was of no use, seeing as I had no telephone, but I consoled myself with the thought that there would be others, then more, and more, until my creases folded over finally into new arrangements. None of which had anything to do with my predicament. Of course I might one day forget; of course one day I might find one after another straining at my sheets; of course I might never speak to a woman again. I was letting the point slip away under the fiery light of the moon coming into its full phase.

Since everything is always the same I wondered if there was reason to go on. I kept borrowed sentiments at bay through sheer effort of will, while watching the phantoms behind my thoughts make aggressive shifts and negotiations for power. There were no presences to explain the posturings I was forced to witness, nor were there guides to take me through the terrain I had seen it seemed to me a thousand times before. As frozen I had to rely on memory to carry me through, but knew at the same time that my memory would be clouded by the world it painted in dark shades of crimson. Like a woman bleeding under the moon I watched my life run out from between my hands, powerless to stop the process, looking on with dead eyed lethargy until even the most familiar voices stopped talking and sat watching my eyes for signs of life. I could say nothing for hours at a time, then spat out rocks and bile covered nuggets defying more accurate description.

Although I call out names of lunatics as accusations, I stand as one with their harsh winded sighs. I have melted into the darkness that bears light, the cold reflections about which wiser men than I once sang ballads and to which they made offerings more substantial than the clay and dirt I hold out as if giving anything of worth. I fear the collapse of my machinery more than the wrath of god, in short. Out of such arrogance comes breakdowns and mechanical failures predicted at the onset although steps were never taken to correct them, despite the knowledge that had accumulated in droves piled into barn-like structures themselves guaranteed for a minimum of eighty years.

It is not because I want to spread depression or misery that I relate these events; rather because these events are molded into worlds we try to separate ourselves from at birth, using tricks like silver spoons and circumcisions to support false claims of superiority or predestination. It is the rot that falls in between the cracks that escapes the obscene posturings preceded always by polite coughs and seemingly carefree notations and criticisms. In the classrooms our fabric is torn then sewn back together with tiresome playacting designed only to support an untenable position. It is in every brick, I-beam, gallon of concrete poured with precision into pre-molded casings, melting window, carved stone, granite or marble facade strung on with loops of twined steel, cabled fiber optic network, coarsely cast iron pipe, sewer grating, spindly crane towering over the city in false illusion of omnipotent splendor, antennae sprawled in awkward imitation of forests and plantations, fields sown in chemically coated seeds unable to duplicate themselves, asphalt and tile and chromed steel and mirrored glass and long lines of tautly strung wires humming with the passionless song of man. It is with and for and inside and by and along and finally, it is legs kicked up to the sky, a tightly woven web whose every element sings and contorts itself with movements grabbed from the hands of an array of gods and lesser deities destined for immortality at some stage of their lives but for now waiting patiently in inns and cafes for the proper time to roll around again.

I take no time for debts or false renumerations; that is not the question at all. My sighs are the sighs of the world, if only most indirectly; my sight, blurred and fogged and stained with an occasional tear, sends forth dispatches and rumours then sits in chairs without backs hoping for only one word to break the day into slivers out of which can crawl insects and small models of corpses in various states of decay. I cannot feign a happiness or other states of mind merged and frosted until hard as stone. It is my history, and the history of all others who fall into these pages, then a quick movement to the side, away from all that is dark, bleeding like a sunless light. It is long strings of worries and obsessions connected in illegitimate, but still powerful, ways. It is only an outline, a first draft to be considered then abandoned as insufficient. It is a lover and tables twisted into unusual shapes. It is the first and last light of day, the song of pigeons and sea gulls, cows and sheep and pigs and chickens, wheat and oats and barley and carrots and cauliflowers and coffee strained out of high soils better sold for cocaine and opium poppies used only decoratively, of course. It is geraniums and starving children in Sudan and splattered blood lining alleyways and dark corners in forbidden no-mans lands too dismal to waste another bullet on. It is the rot of death and the sands of time; it follows where ever we go and laughs in strangely silent hymns when we shoot rockets up to the moon. It is the reward for the patient and punishment for the oddly unforgiven agents of despair who clutter our television screens with nightly reports of misery and immanent collapse. It is words I am reluctant to give away but throw over streets recklessly, as if watching a parade go by with no spectators and no participants, with only a sigh, a whisper, a tear perhaps, then silence and the agency of destruction offered then retracted before further damage can be done.

There will be terrorism of course. Flights will explode in mid-air, scattering wreckage over fields still carrying the remnants of lost battles. Taken as a group the terrorists will swear off violence unanimously, then move on to their next target. Yesterday's soldiers are unprepared, preferring the uncertainty of the meager diet of worms offered by their commanders to a sure death. Chieftains will meet, offering bargains and cease-fires by the dozen, hoping to gain some minor tactical advantage, some time to restock supplies worn thin over months of fighting. There is little difference between the old and new ways of war – a matter only of timing and the proper marketing strategy. In long lines dwarves will march off to combat filled with songs of silence. In each drop of blood will creep a memory of past lies; in each lie will stand an offer vaguely entertained by captains of industry and workers alike. Morticians dressed in long gowns of dull brown will sweep carefully over the battlefields, competing in a tasteful manner for the corpses of the dear departed. Angels disguised in robes of black will file reports with the home office. Beyond the blood and the tears there will be nothing of note.