Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

4

Send out for microbes to fill your stomach and mind; there are no laws as of yet barring the practice, so it is best to act quickly, before the opportunity passes.

The never-ending search pulls us through the dark dead periods which come and go with un-announced frequency. There are quickly decaying absurdities in our hands but in the end I blame no one, even myself. I wanted to see, I admit, the inner soul of each and every microbe. Without the night we would move in irregular pulses across desolate urban landscapes. It is not that there is no hope, be clear at once upon this point, if nothing else. I no longer know what the truth is, and have abandoned the search. I know I will lose large parts of the machine. It is only the cost which eludes me, and keeps me awake at night. Before I was happy to wander blindly in the most literal sense but then moved on, outside of the horizon the words vibrated with an almost animal urgency, but there were no reports to file under unknown, simply too much, or better left to the side. Which paints my eyes pale blue and my breath irregular.

When I asked my parents to explain matters they said nothing of microbes, only work and worries. In the schools there were impatient sighs followed by whispers whose nature I began to master after a few years. But never a word about the microbes. It was clear, however, that there could be no sounds or blurred visions of altars and tainted saints and no technique appropriate for the job. Which left a frightening vacuum. With the machines I said, to no one in particular, I could at least begin. But there was no beginning, only endless starts without reason. Better, I reflected, to simply advance, and call it neither beginning nor end. A tactical device, if you prefer, although to me it is of no concern how I describe my movements. Perhaps this is the first inkling I have had of the gradual collapse of the boundless fields of microbial influenzas out of which I laugh and cry before the eyes of god. I know at least one thing – there are rumours floating, sounds I take as my own when the mood strikes me, which is not often.

There are first things of a sort, of course: multiple births and rust and broken metal containers. The quiet crowds go home, leaving only serious spectators. The angels step to one side, corrosion and deformity part, the flesh checks for damages. There are no words, only concepts and dreams (the fantasies of better men) to watch over an endless procession of fresh faced children steeped already in the tradition of their forefathers, having the option, they are told, to pick and choose at random. The first of many lies, more to follow at vigorously preselected intervals. The lands of myth are built in painstaking triplicate, stories told then retold until the books are closed with dusty shouts and the tendrils slip with silky smoothness across sick and tired faces. Without a doubt there are better men than I; I make no, and will never make, claims to the contrary. Without doubts and questions the sad truth remains, clear for all to see. The pits lined with worms and other strange devices whose nature remains unclear are filled with the token laughter of the victims of last nights frost; they drift nervously around the room until there is no fruit more bitter than their conversation.

Without walking there is only silence and the forced voices intimidating themselves into submission. Before all gaiety will prevail. In the distance stand too quiet symphonies no longer able to penetrate the corroded channels of our ears. There are no needs for wanting better or worse, although still there are lingering sighs and now memories made over against freshly cut stones. There can be no questions of difficulty, since that is no longer what is at stake. The press is free to report as it will; its activities are no longer of any interest to me. I warned many years ago that I would stop listening but still the voices kept on, until their calls and cries sounded against hollow walls. There is no need for drama or anxiety; the sands and stones are arranging quickly in elaborate rain dances and quality motion pictures the likes of which will soon be broadcast over a nationwide satellite system. Strangers flit about nervously, unsure if they too are invited but it is too late, the works are well under way, and can no longer be held up, even for such pressing concerns. To call in the strangest victims to soothe our consciences becomes tempting but always the bible warned against the easy path. Although all books are in my ears cold remnants of living science there can be no question of the first researches, nor the second, nor any of the rapidly diminishing series which follow, leaving us now with only one, whose face becomes more and more drawn as expectations mount with titanic fury.

The words should be more polite, I know, having been taught the rudiments of manners, but within the barriers of castles and cobblestones I forget myself, flinging out shrapnel with an enthusiasm perhaps better suited to trench warfare and well ordered charges mown down with unerring precision by the latest in anti-personal devices. But never room for complaint or now observation; the techniques are multiple and can call out in different tongues but always the doubt remains. Inside of simple patterns there stand bold outlines and advanced mathematics. I call for aid then fall silent; the wind of mountains drained of hope falls over the shrouded plains and turreted temples. With no music or fanfare I hold none of the hoped for rewards, knowing all too well the sound is to be worshipped but torn limb from limb – piercing rays and then faint outlines of needles and dried fruit. Inside the collections assemble into more convenient shapes and sizes, more suited to the drawn out gasps that the press assured us were sure to accompany the last round of negotiations. I hold my doubts in check, remembering the last year's predictions. Even at its best the bacteria and germs can generate only at unspoken intervals. I can watch, if needed, but know now the process will go on, despite any protestations or objections I might have to the contrary. In the last days of sunlight I watched over the crowds and canyons, unsure how to proceed but falling nevertheless into the most elaborately constructed mechanisms, of which my forefathers had often dreamed but forgot inevitably at the first light of dawn, there being always more pressing concerns. And perhaps there was a tinge of laziness as well, a certain unwillingness to embark upon yet another impossible journey.

Without reason I climbed steep flights up to arenas of combat too brutal to relate in the fictions of insomniacs and the mentally disturbed. Pressing warm flesh against my hands I wrote letters and cards expecting no replies but happy still to follow through my obligations. Inside of houses containing doubtful renditions of past lives and heavy cards about which I hesitated to even ask I danced slow waltzes, holding greetings and chocolated candies by my side. Although there are others willing to carry on with the struggle I am in general reluctant to hand over the shields and crosses with such ease. Because of the poor standards involved in production today I resist even licensing efforts of the most innocent kinds. I am called cold by the frozen and dead by the empty eyed disciples of satan. All events are found in the contours of misaligned elements and half broken orbits around invisible cores and hemispheres. To speak today of gods and the dead is to resist the winds with sinews built from milk and butter. Without fear of contradiction I move first to one side, then the other, no longer caring for the complacency of constancy. In the morning we can sort matters out, before then there is work to be done.

In the highest reaches books are offered against the cold but their shapes are better suited for sharply cut outfits and ballroom gowns whose design is sure to raise eyebrows in the best circles. In the crude lamp light the poor struggle without breathing, afraid to steal from the masters the last sighs that are rightfully theirs. In other parts there are those who care but only for worlds long gone; I have tried many times to convince them that it is not too late, but they prefer to listen to outmoded preachings and sermons whose nature calls out against the eight eyed wonders prowling about on legs well over sixteen yards high. In factors of two the numbers multiply afraid to say more than yes or no. To hold out for higher pay remains the most noble option, against which all others are defined. I send bitter offers of thanks, wanting nothing more than these words and tokens out of which perhaps we can draw meager reasons to go on for one more day. To call the past a traitor finds awkward relations struggling to express the finer emotions we are religiously taught to resist from an early age.

Against this all I draw patiently outlined manifolds of future cities within which the red hordes can lay in wait, knowing the worries of the years will sustain me through the darker times. It is enough to listen as the marbled voices creep about silently on all fours, wishing for clear skies against which to fold paper-mache castles in steadily decreasing numbers until finally one is reached, too large to manipulate further. At that time all considered expert are called in for consultations at outrageous figures to be hidden within the budget by well trained accountants who will at later dates employ the classic story of simply caring for their duties above all else. The military researches new stronger biological agents while prostitute nations and men lean slightly to the side for better fit and faster action. Again the lack of fiction is depressing at times, but only because my sense of history is so fragmented with cracks and deceptions, ruses to re-illusion the hungry and tired. It is all a tired rerun but within the exhaustion burns always a flame more pure than ethanol fueled V-12's screaming out on linear asphalt tracks, kicked over by nitroglycerin at the critical moment, controlled furies we shout for nothing then rest. The time wasted on complaint is better spent on new visages and vistas out of which crawl with painstaking slowness beasts the nature of which we are hard put to place labels upon. Leaving trails of bubbling broths they struggle to move out of range of at least the lighter artillery pieces, lest the blasts scatter their pigmentations and arterial membranes over too wide an area. The gunners are weak, however, and poorly trained, and often hit their own positions without knowing it.

In the night, when the lights fall and the star shells cascade down with monotonous regularity, the glow of cigarettes provide weak bull's eyes to the sharp shooters and heat seeking shells that have been introduced only recently. Of course there is nothing more than spinning orbits of decaying electrons, tiring with efforts at best poorly grasped. The moon spins about as well, adhering for reasons only observed, never yielding its secrets despite the most well intentioned probes and visitations. In other times there were causes for celebration now only a world weary exhaustion out of which I know there will follow days filled with self-important posturings and vain glories pursued with the vigour generally reserved for the primal virgin. I struggle to penetrate the outer layers without which the forms cannot remain hidden in robes and gowns, multi-tiered general purpose sports complexes and the like. Perhaps, I contemplate during idle moments, there will be room for another self-important renegade heralding death and destruction although I doubt it, then move on to more fruitful activities.

But the mission is that which comes first; idle speculations and gossip will channel the waters into stagnant holding ponds. Without fear there can be no unwindings or recombination. There are processes which the population at large will never understand but accept on faith – the principles of which go unquestioned but stand as filaments around which are wound endless coils of looped fringe elements without interiors. We tell lies hoping the truth will be sufficient then act surprised when caught in the act; it is not, we protest, as if there were other choices more suited to the assignment. It is a matter best left to the proper authorities, only I cannot be sure of what proper is, or even the nature of my rights and wrongs. In the dark spaces between which we find small moments of relaxation cows moo demurely, for mates and ways that even memory cannot ignore. I would paint superior pictures but my eyes are unable to see matters as they stand. I would compose music to resonate the times at least in my dreams, through which voices call out to each other for advise and shopping tips but on waking the fingers that would play out these nocturnal symphonies blush like awkward teenaged girls at a first kiss. I take out notes and years from which I convince myself something has been gained and hope boredom is not all that accumulates. There are tiny organisms pumping with fury but wrapping themselves around the keys and pipelines until the exact nature of their operation becomes only a matter of perspective; the position of the observer determines the nature of the flow and function of each and every microscopic creature but still they persist, insisting now with quiet frenzies that they are whole and depend upon no-one and nothing. I would humour them only there is no longer time. Without hesitation they mass over hosts and stale wine, arranging themselves into ideal formations, devised by the best military minds of the past centuries, only today fluorocarboned sprays cast a fine mist over the landscape, disguising the features they have studied so assiduously in school. There are no longer methods best suited since there are no longer books and films from which to draw beautiful fantasies of life before pain. It is enough to hold back the tears and breath in at least with a measure of calmness at least once or twice a week. And it is noteworthy that even such a slight effort seems too much.

To still my hands I occupy myself with mundane chores selected at random from the pages of mail-order catalogues I keep by the side of my bed for precisely this purpose. I have developed certain abilities, the clear cutting along invisible lines drawn by great authors and molested pimps being only one. In the evening I resist the strains imposed by superior minds and crawl towards the television for rest, but find nothing, only blank empty spaces waiting anxiously for my eyes to fill them but there is no longer time and pressing obligations are bearing down on me in spite of my best wishes to the contrary. Inside of my slurred breaths lie dormant cattle, flocked around salt licks and watering troughs. I have tried to fight; the strain proved too much – I rest, not wanting to hear more screams penetrate the night.

It is not a matter for judgment any longer – that time has long passed, or has passed me at least. More than that would be foolish to suggest. Without a doubt there can be organization and purity although I suggest this only as a panacea to be distributed at randomly selected intervals, none of which is to exceed eight seconds in length. Despite the recommended quantity of these moments, their qualities must remain strictly supervised. It is, after all, a question of standards; as we all know, when standards decline, the society falls. All forces, irregardless of political persuasions, must align along carefully fragmented fault lines marked with cloth and other scraps drawn from waste dumps and textile plants. No excuses will be accepted although with a sufficiently large deposit one's obligations can be re-examined if need be. Behind me stand long lines of self-interested spectators none of which have time to engage in more fruitful activities. All are ready to accept responsibility at a moment's notice, taking control, consolidating resources, assembling directives with neither waste nor disorder: the very picture of efficient production, they will garnish and reassign until the order has been resumed along lines recommended by expert administrators. I hold out against the promised gold and sugar by the truck full, made leery by earlier promises and fallen angels unwilling to raise themselves up by the dint of hard work alone. There is nothing this time around as well, but there is no stopping the words once they begin to embrace our thighs and groins with pornographic intent. No sighs or well intended ministrations of carefully rationed physical stereo-typing can counterattack the effects and measures enacted by well meaning patriots. There is enough to carry on strong backs although in the morning the same sounds carefully insert themselves into the lightly metalled and frosted passages through which we are told sounds penetrate but not without a struggle. In the first moment there is not even one, let alone things out of which to construct worlds and softly waving fields of grain. Nothing, then, to pity or offer condolences to, no matter how heart-felt.

I have savoured the death and cold mornings that follow; without hesitation the hands moved slowly over empty meadows and barren landscapes strewn with the taste of futility. In distant horizons flowed large machines leaving behind furrows and streams filled with transparent waste products, leaning towards the obscene at times – but that, we were assured, was a matter which was not our concern. Still, aerial photos raised an eyebrow here and there, once the image was pierced and the turns and channels found to correspond to pictures we carry as prized possessions in our purses and wallets. In the afternoon we are buried in hordes, the word goes, but I find no traps only self-inflicted wounds designed only to enable me to escape further duties, which press themselves on me like unwelcome ministrations of well meaning ex-patriots. I follow over the sound passages remembering the Guatama's advice. Minor infractions still come to the surface but are easily fooled into submission and degeneration. I have no aims only loosely defined programs which seem to carry me over the alien landscapes with less than no resistance, although tomorrow, always to come, never arriving, promises sweat and difficulties by the score. In all cases there will not be differences; the difficulties coming only as agents of past lives and the preponderant presences of large mollusk like creatures. I am hesitant to outline their form more specifically; after all, the temptation to say some thing of relevance is an ever present danger. Better, when in the presence of substances of this kind, to hold one's breath for slightly longer than recommended, until it begins to struggle with easily measurable rates of decreasing energies.

Better still, my advisors whisper, to fall over oneself in a never ending series of rituals and rites against which the gods are sure to measure our progress with an iron hand. My blood, after all, is the same red as my fore-fathers, mothers, and an ever expanding sphere of relations which I am afraid to penetrate for fear my time will soon vanish as if at the hands of an expert magician. The smoke trickles up out of the corners of my mouth, wisps lighting up the sky and casting an eerie glow over the ground it seeps over, broken only by the hills and canyons placed as if by chance by darkly scheming hands against which there can be no defense – and always in times of war and other difficulties not easily remediable by political maneuverings and negotiations. In the most poorly lit alleyways drift the chances that there is nothing more than dusk and the smell of cat urine. By the light of small lanterns the entryway glows out in cold morse codes, remembered only at the last minute by harried operators. When it comes to questions of the spirit there is nothing to say, the questions collapsing as it were under their own weight before having grown large enough to sustain an in-depth inquiry. Without the careful handling guaranteed under recently worked out international charters and treaties, there can only be cruel slices and blood cascading out over the harshly illuminated landscapes. Inside the membranes lie steely eyed guardians of the public peace against which no amount of force is of use, although at times carefully worded argument may be of some help, given the proper timing, and of course the full degree of respect warranted by their position and status.

My hands can hold only poorly crafted instruments of destruction although I suffer from complaints of harsh and inhuman treatment, against which I do not any longer know what to say. Although there may be some grounds for charges of this nature, I can see only spite and malice, and perhaps the weakness that so often motivates the more mundane insinuations and accusations that pour out over the dried and dead landscapes and so often act as indices of approaching calamity and warfare without reason, buried so deeply within our hearts that there can be no question of examination or recuperation. Perhaps it would not be unreasonable to ask for slight reinforcement – the times, however, do not warrant any, I am assured, and, upon further reflection, see the cold truth which lies behind this argument in stagnant pools of excrescence and putrification. I paint with colors both bright and dull, faded and alive until the sun grabs after the works with greedy hands, taking the breath and heart as one and as its own and who are we then, after all, to complain or even offer words of agreement, prostituting our minds to causes only poorly understand, behind which stand armies waiting to carry out orders that will by the nature of hierarchy and order go unquestioned. And so it should be; the anger of injustice calls only out at the moments of shaking heads and hands, in the empty stomachs and eyes that fill the blue eyed cyclops invited so warmly into our lives. I have no words to throw over these fires, no rites born in spring, no technical maladies out of which to suck small stones and drops of blood. There will be rest only in the promised land, I am told, and then only maybe. All of which is fine, and good as well, I am sure, but still there are uneasy pauses in the speeches that fill the air night and day and of which there can be endless discussion, both pro and con. I carefully examine the errors and unbonded surfaces which are held against firm rods and chairs upon which the stiff jointed movements of dancers held in no esteem carry out ritual hollowings and self-inflicted mutilations which can do no more than soothe a tired skin and take out never worded suffering, leaving deflated bags of misunderstood passions behind like worn out wine-skins, to be pierced by the first fool to come along with the right prescription for aid and comfort.

Inside of carefully wound strings are the first stirrings of life; without the proper doses of sunlight and nitrogen the tiny errors and hidden causes will whisper quietly of love and other tragic things, then fold over and then over again, repeating the process until they have found the endless expanses around which electrons scream out death songs and lullabies over deeply rooted prejudices but nothing, and I mean nothing, can hold out against the inevitable attraction of the center, into which descend poorly understood juggernauts and unworldly attractions which may or may not find common ground to walk upon. Without taking an iota, or less even, I move then sing quiet dirges in hopes the motes and particles that now surround me will perhaps take some pity and embrace me with long lost warmth but even here I know I explore worlds of fantasy and illusion.

In the evening, at the first bell after sunset, the magistrates line along even parallels, hoping to attract a case with sufficient merit to move them along in easy fashion. Without character or plot, however, it is said, there can be no story, but the attorneys for the defense argue vigorously against this principle, laying stacks of carefully culled researches before the head magistrate, upon whom the burden of this tirelessly repeated argument falls. It is said he has grown senile, his occasional nods simply habit, reflecting no awareness of the proceedings going on around him. In the end, the nature of his final decision will only be a matter of luck, and cannot be questioned. The arguments, then, go on only for the sake of the opposing attorneys, whose bank accounts grow geometrically by the day, and who cannot admit the vacuity of the legal processes they engender, not even to themselves. Their eyes stand out on long insect stalks, peering at the proceedings with unbridled curiosity, half afraid to tell the reporters who have gathered in the hallway and who are beginning to overflow into the courtroom itself that the trial will never end, the victim of prematurely ejaculated motions and insanely ballooned delusions of grandeur. Without moving their tendrils in the slightest they still manage to convey an overwhelming sense of urgency, amplified by the media until the hints and overtones have transformed into a tidal wave of public outcry. I have stayed to the side, anxious to observe the process, not wanting to interfere any more than I already have. Although there were rumours of terrorists earlier the danger has apparently passed, or at least the apparatus of the state no longer cares what happens in this particular arena of justice. Perhaps peace is finally reigning, as has been promised for so many years. Without wanting to jeopardize my position I move my eyes from face to face, hoping to find some silent confirmation of my newly sprouted suspicions. Of course there is nothing; only the quiet rustling of insect wings and the barely audible clicking of mandibles moving below the level of conscious action.

Inside of darkly closeted fairy tales I leave behind old stories suggested in the strictest confidence but not without promises of extra-military aids and assistances. There is in the air a certain jubilation – the minor functionaries have decided on a course of action, the words have been properly broadcast, now there remains nothing more to do but wait. And waiting is a thing we know too well; we will wait for buses loaded with strange sounding immigrant children whose faces bear the scars of alien combats and ruthless scorched earth policies and still there is nothing to call our own. I have not asked to be placed in such a position; it does not make me comfortable to have to interview endless casualty flows simply in order to give a few well meaning spinsters grounds for pity and concern which will never take root beyond the clucks and sighs that rocket around the sewing circles and bridge games of endless golden frosts out of which there grow bizarre contrivances better suited to one-on-one combat than personal defense. Even as the center grows in proportion to the sows and cattle lowing about aimlessly, the exact nature of the destination begins to dissolve in pools of sulphuric acid and isotopes bred especially for this purpose in labs hidden strategically around the circumferences that have aligned themselves this time around in our favor, although there is of course no guarantee of continued loyalty. We can only hope they will remain in our sphere for long enough to carry out the mission we have assigned them.

In the morning the weather is once again clear, but there is no reason as of yet to think this means anything. In our explorations we have determined once and for all the sources under which evolve patterns of destruction and corruption. In secret agencies revealed here now for the first time ever in print these schematics are pored over by under-qualified experts (this being an entirely new field) until finally a shaky consensus has been reached, at the cost of many friendships and more than one life. Without breaching my security or the better interests of bureau chiefs scattered inside of declining orbits that are said will one day reach the sun although there is some doubt as to the accuracy of these claims, I can safely report the immanent demise of all oppositions. We stand now at a new frontier, having torn the pages and mirrored reflections out at dawn, leaving only the shorn images and razored faces without which the world would become altogether too ugly for description. Inside of exquisitely sculpted breasts vibrate the pounding of machine drums and inadequately arched satires against which are outlined in semi-abstract forms the daughters of nationalist revolutionaries whose faces now adorn the tender of the land. I have no use for war games and outmoded battle theories when all around me fall wishes and screaming orgasms which until only recently were held to be obscene in an off hand way. I wanted to raise some complaints, but could find no boards adequately staffed, or with enough interest to take up my case. In the evening, while watching the glow of radioactive hamburger patties sizzling on frying pans made out of teary eyed remembrances of past ordeals moving off into the spaces dream occupies in better times, I call over to my friends and lovers but find only the blur of historical markers.

In a sense I have stopped talking altogether, the words parting the way and the soft rustle of the rushes providing the only accompaniment, in an off key that still somehow manages to provide relief, if not a more keenly defined pleasure. My tongue glows with well relished reliefs but can never provide the illusions it has been told to spit out in never ending spirals about which we are woefully mis-informed. Although the notion of truth has as well been forbidden at the outset by definition, I know there are well intentioned angels of a sort watching over my hands and feet and filing their reports in a fair and impartial manner. It is not about these matters I raise my voice in complaint. Hardly, for in fact I want here to pause and offer thanks for the past and present agents of divine retributions and unholy matrimonies that have carried me as far as the room I rest in for days or months no longer caring how much longer as long as I have long enough, which is sufficient repayment for services rendered I am assured although still I drift into silent stone edifices whose calm voices soothe my fibrillations and spastic tonalities into dormant fermentations out of which will sprout vines and seeds to be put in storage for harder days to come.

Without saying too much I stand at poorly guarded and lit border crossings where the judges and watchmen sit sipping divine concoctions born in the highest reaches of mountain top abbeys and fortified palaces in which breed dogs and masters alike with reckless abandon. In the narrows where even the most thin have to suck their breaths in for hours at a time simply to survive I find enough room to cross against the lines and shadowy illusions thrown up by fantastic gargoyles and pre-pubescent offerings out of which are pulled the most lovely sighs. When I stop for breath myself I remember the lost and lonely in the out of the way places and rooms inside of which nothing lives, not even memories. There can be no stopping unless the cost is considered low enough; for my concerns, however, it is always far too high, and so of course out of the question from the very onset. I struggle to put down in time after tortured time each vibration and oscillation although I can never be sure about the degree of exactitude I am facing. Somewhere are boards better suited to the task, ascertaining once and for all a set of standards against which all can be held, although of course so far, as already noted, my experience hesitates to look further, having encountered nothing more than slowly fermenting dung heaps in which the well trained eye thrills to discover beetles creeping about without cares; the rumoured relation to the unsightly cockroach a thing of the past, we are assured with lewd leers and snide asides reserved at best for those in the know. My eye of course is coarse as stone ground flowers the petals of which we sip in delicately named concoctions, congratulating ourselves on our perspicacity. I see nothing but writhing torsos and divinely formed breasts underneath which fantasies are perhaps better suited although we would in general be loathe to admit such a thing.

I have withstood certain tests and ministrations the exact nature of which remains classified although the general details are well known to followers of such matters. In mid-day sunsets there fall cherubs darting like flies, holding onto fat angels and grinning demons making plans for secret trysts at later times, promised to go undiscovered although of course the security cameras will capture every detail in glossy color prints and non-stop action footages. The showers which are promised as rewards for good behavior lilt drearily over covered landscapes and plastic lined hallways held securely as a deposit against all possible damages. Nervous housewives hold open doors well fastened against the hordes milling about outside then slam them shut; the noise fades into a distant murmur held at bay by security systems and guard dogs and privately maintained armies. Always the words from inside and out melt into and out of each other in a ceaseless flux into which we insert measuring devices and cold compresses to keep away infection. The question of proper hygiene permeates our pores as we poison our lives to escape the slightest chance of microbial invasion, which brings us back in a wide sweeping circle – whose outer limits define in ever expanding motions the points which constitute limitless centers – to a certain beginning we struggle avidly against, but whose nature guarantees success in the end. I have instigated inquiries, of course, although I have been told not to expect too much at such an early time. I worm my way through manuscripts kept fresh by modern notations and commentaries, wondering if there is nothing better to do. The words draw outlines in stark shades of the unknowable, suggesting lives colored more by blood than paint. In expert hands the treatments take on peaceful ambitions, against which we fall like sheaves of wheat upon endlessly fruitful plains and mountain meadows.

Finally the time comes to align each and every organism, no matter what size, from the universe itself down to the pores within which sub-atomic particles make their ways across four and five dimensional spaces the nature of which we are barred from entering of course but which we nevertheless create in well intentioned and finely honed orgasmic frenzies the likes of which put the boldest dionysians to shame. We respirate in exhalations within which collapse entire solar systems without even a sigh to mark their passing, not caring to explore these always vanishing worlds, the mysteries of which have held past generations spellbound, or at least mystified in a properly respectful manner. I say nothing more, knowing of course nothing more than what I say, and not wanting to appear foolish or redundant in my efforts. Despite which I cannot help but observe the phantoms that crawl around dead faces of cold matter postulated as a final solution in the eternal quest which today we bring to end, or are at least finally in sight of, or so the high priests argue. Knowing nothing of such esoteric and indeed often arcane dialogues, monologues, polemics and heartfelt entreaties alike I sit back, content to watch my private armies march about in reckless abandon through mazes and morasses and fields of mines and strawberries and whatever else I care to insert for the sake of decency. Tiny generals the size of absent viral memories bleat about, hurrying their troops along as if failure were something to be despised. On all sides spectators and advance guards for distantly heralded and loosely fitted obscurities jostle for space in steadily decreasing avenues of doubt and fear and perhaps now and then even a fit of trembling brought on I am sure by nothing more than an epidemic of bad digestion. More than ever I cannot help but to crack a smile; the reprimands laughter is said to bring tumbling down around my shoulders serve only as further catalysts in which sprout tiny angels whose wings sing high pitched mantras of pure ecstasy.

Calling out over the fields and marshes the workers struggle to put up crude temporary housing as had been promised in brochures distributed in randomly selected communities with no other common points than a particularly difficult postal code. In the cellars extensions are excavated for no particular reason at all; old habits die hard, grandfather insists on the clear and ever present nature of the dangers surrounding us while we hold his hand in loving remembrances of times gone by. I have grown with him soft and pliable although he tells us never ending stories of the brittle nature of his bones. I want to laugh but listen politely, his exploits having by this time reached far beyond the outer edges of the city, penetrating the suburbs and tract communities that multiply in fungal progressions along hill sides and valley floors, creating new geometries of despair and frustration whose price increases in invisible increments. Although property values are skyrocketing, the investment counselors shake their heads doubtfully, unwilling to commit themselves to such speculative financial distortions. Without some guarantee of success, or at least in the absence of verifiable failure ratings they refuse to put forth the recommended buy order, settling instead for a stop gap c rating, which is in the financial community the monetary equivalent of murder. Of course they escape with hardly a scratch, their reputations intact, their portfolios solid, their marriages no more problematic than at any other time.

Although the proceedings leave vile and bitter tastes behind and the workers remain oblivious, I cannot help but laugh a little, behind my hand which now covers the lower portion of my face. Without endings the histories multiply, forming new communities out which to draw their meager resources into tighter knots. I examine one, then another, then scatter the entire proceedings into the wind, hoping to locate the precise epicenter around which revolve the tormented souls through which we are forced to view the world in single lensed binocular vision. To spit out these rude interlocutors would be a kindness better reserved for small children still unable to create a thought at random. Better, I begin to suspect although I am careful to keep my suspicions to myself, is to peer so closely and with such exactitude so as to bring about nothing whatsoever that can be sung or danced or told around firesides in years to come. Or else to expand in atomic fragmentations the diameters and conical observances until nothing but heavenly song and the music of the spheres smashing in shattered harmonies whose unearthly nature draws us forwards in ever quieted hordes until nothing at all remains but memories struggling to find homes in towns no one sees except on late night programmings designed to insert the dawn of sleep and the twilight of man into hearts squelched by vigorously pounded out recreations and tensioned dissatisfaction against which there can be no defense.

There can be no doubts in the first twilight; neither can we protest or ask for renumerations whose exact quantities are to be determined at a later date by courts well trained in strict measures of accountability and liability. Without testimonies or tearfully recounted memories tinted now by anger and silent recriminations the proceedings grind to a halt, leaving the swarms of microscopically oriented suitors and defendants at a loss for words, which is admittedly a first as far as the history books are concerned, although rumour has it there is an old woman not too far removed who is able to remember far more extreme cases of violations, and brutalities the like of which modern times cannot even recreate in the most high budget film. Her face streaks with tears that no kleenex can remove and when offered one anyway she strikes back angrily, knowing full well the offer comes not from concern but a stagnant sympathy which would prefer to see her dead but which will not allow itself even this one small pleasure. I am at this very moment nothing whatsoever although there are swarms of radiating apostles of doom and destruction eager to assume my role if only for the sake of notoriety or poorly disguised lustings against which the bible laments in stern tones born in ever widening spheres of hypocrisy and intrigue. I offer nothing then and listen for echoed returns in caverns and recesses born in desperate times and dis-solutioned beings carrying long tapers which flicker in the mild breezes that drift up from below.

In the dawn of time the first two membraneless organisms tie knots ending in soft quivering sighs and pauses filled with victimless pleasures (bought and sold in cheap facsimiles and dishearteningly obtuse manifestations of greed and sickly tainted faces bearing down with gifts and toys soon to grow out of all bounds) and still we pause now and then to ask ourselves why we subject ourselves to such meaningless drivel. I have nothing other than connections breaking into endless patterns and revolutions out of which I am told I drift into a permanence I will struggle for the remainder of my life to keep intact. The nature of this joke remains for all intents hidden although I catch glimmerings sneaking in around the edges which stand blunted and carefree and ready to offer their services to the highest bidder, no matter what the neighbors think. Insanely cackling prostitutes vie for our affections on the evening news while blithely retelling in steadily more digestible forms the decline and fall of man. No amount of philosophy can prepare one for such a cosmically scaled peal of laughter, yet in the roots and branches leaves and things half-way between life and death fix predetermined amounts of nitrated sulfides and phosphorescent mucus into lifelike recreations of finely spun webs of candied death and lilac flavored beverages guaranteed to please even the most discerning of palates – all with a low throaty convulsions of hilarity there is no longer any need to disguise.

I have manicured the hands of the death watchmen and now wait for their fingers to slip carelessly over lovingly oiled and polished gun barrels. Although I am warned in steadily increasing volumes of the dangers inherent in my foolish pursuits I must admit a certain glee at the prospect the sight of so many identically wardrobed guardians of good taste and manners presents my tired eyes. Without wanting to appear too full of good cheer I hold hands in the morning before the sun has mustered up sufficient reactions to melt the night into pools of hatred and fear. Although there is nothing more pure than a completely featureless expression of disdain I want to remind myself that inside of each pure element rests others waiting to take their places in unsteady ranks whose character changes always, sometimes losing a face, others finding only the first to look back at. It is enough to call out the orders and discharge obligations born elsewhere, in places of no interest but fascinating nevertheless, in hidden ways open only to the properly initiated. Of course there will be protests, and angry denunciations. I would expect nothing more; the swarms will mill, the angels sing one more cantion against the solar winds, the factories churn another useless object of rankly passionless desire, the pressmen produce endless reams and bricks of uselessly printed fabrications and faulted logics. All of which, I am sorry to report, is exactly as was written in the first day, on tablets and manifests whose identity remains a closely guarded secret.