Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

5

There are gleaming machine banks pounding out harmonies of aluminum and steel; despite their obvious nature the gears and hydraulic systems which constitute their souls spin on, forming songs which repeat in infinite progressions bounded only by the harsh grinding of worn fittings. The promised land, although real enough on its own terms, offers only shallow repetitions and vapid dilutions of fluids best taken straight. The gods sigh, slightly depressed, then go on about their business. In the quiet corners, outside of the scope of the glass-eyed demons bounding with gay abandon through ancient towns lined with all the latest contrivances offered always for our convenience, creatures resembling leprechauns leap here and there before removing their hats and offering balding pates to the sun, which breathes sighs not meant to be heard on the usual wave-lengths, although there are as of yet no rules explicitly barring behaviors of this kind. Dimly lit cafes and restaurants offer open doors inside of which lie tantalizing visions of decadence and misdirected prosperity. The saints proceed one by one to urinals and fountains across which they gaze at each other with tear streaked eyes, not wanting to admit the final words that will once and for all return them to the dust with which they loudly proclaim their alliance.

Hands move across silent canyons filled with the excesses of dreams come and gone; always fresh, always new, the spheres sing and cavort; virgin angels with blood the color of splayed tendons contort across infinite skies streaked by contrails and wisps of cloud matter too loosely scattered to drop its load but content nevertheless to go on as if nothing were amiss. Dawn breaks then falls with worried sighs, leaving hot afternoons to carry the day forwards towards the march of impatient suns. I have no words, no dice to cast across tables lined with old unhappy faces. Without dreams or agency I find time to listen as the creaking solar winds spin threads across which small spiders make webs, never afraid to build more time. The years pass as if by magic, leaving me unknowing, unbelieving but still twisted in logics and impersonal devices of torture and degradation. Distant wars sound echoes followed by footsteps and the hurried shouts of uncertain watchmen and guards, then the pounding of disciplined boots followed by gunfire and the cry of ambulances and mothers wailing over the souls of the dead. Still the dream will not stop; no amount of turns or late night sighs still the lies and the slanders across which we are told bridges forge new directions; there is also the question of food, the lives turning and breaking as by magic, we are assured, never asked to look inside jars labeled unbreakable as solutions of carbonic acid melted into eyes of glass. Witchcraft and spells cast a certain mundane charm over the whole affair while families scurry for crusts, fighting rats and other scavengers for rights guaranteed by constitutions fit not even for toilet tissue, although they can still be used to start a small fire, given the proper dose of enthusiasm and blind desperation.

I make promises to loved ones I keep for all time, while my time runs dry and dead across alien landscapes but how can I explain after all, when the day blooms out in showers of gold and the incandescent glow of the buddha blazes out more suns than are found in all of the heavens? I clear poorly paid paths across barren landscapes whose features remind me of the faces marching in cold lines into subways and buses across the world, neither happy nor unhappy but content nevertheless to carry on if only for the sake of appearances. Sinners make their way holding out cups for alms and offerings of rice and lentils while the rich hold barbecues and praise the follies of lesser men. Each in their turn take the passing strangers for a quick waltz while the dreary eyed carpenters pull long splinters out of hands worn clean by cross-grained plywoods of the most difficult schools, layered unceasingly until the stories have no choice but to cry out in quiet fury.

Without break or renumerations of a higher order I take cards and candles burned low and send out burnt offerings to heavens and gods I forget to carry while making my way from town to town. In the acrid odors of incense and mourning I find some consolation, although in moments of honesty approaching a kind of truth I want none of it, and would be completely satisfied with the bloodless characters of second-rate dime store novels. In the agency of stored misery I stand for a time, not sure if I should wait my turn or simply move to the side, and let others more anxious take my place. Perhaps it would be better to ask the nurses clustering about in the wings, thrusting heads out of sewers for the benefit of the elect, or so I am told. Without matter, however, there is nothing, and out of nothing comes substances both rare and obscure, although I am sure there is no room and the breakers full, each in its turn, of tears and precious bodily fluids retained in their entirety as a matter of course although not to be taken for granted. And still somehow the words struggle to gain life and worlds of their own; the greater parts noting the effort with approving smiles.

I am caught in mirrors cast over shoulders like rice or confetti, each scrap of which throws out the poorest quality foods as if they were caviar and salmon steaks the size of large texts. In well meaning looks there are cold mannered assassins calculating optimal rates of return. Without the cold there is no thaw; the words blend into pulp and acids making a mockery of my efforts despite the most ill intentioned sneer. In the evil eye across my forehead rests a man who knows nothing beyond sadness and frustration. Without stirring a finger he mixes potions of deception and ingratitude, never knowing tomorrow or seeing the days that trail in a coldly sterile procession after him, dragging at his feet like murdered lovers gasping last gurgling breaths. To close the eye is nothing, to ask leave or forgiveness merely a exercise in futility. Promises stand and break then move on until another smiling face waits their sugared words. Temptation carries soliloquies and never ending dawns, while the voices of fear shout and carry on in unforgivable renditions of shattered trinities. The word as word as god is only the beginning, after which we are left to fend for ourselves. Always the lazy eyes drift away, back, then off to the side, unclear and fading fast. Pressures mount in avalanches poised for descent, but a cold laughter brings no flowers shouting out in unions of moist languor. The middle shifts with unerring consternation, leaving behind fantasy and sorrow at nothing lost or gained. I pull over to the side of the road and look at the small pieces of gravel lining the fields in frames of grey. Before, in times never been and never to come, I walked on roads covered in grass, roving over valleys about which nothing could be said beyond or about. My hands caressed the flowers and grass then clapped together in silent prayer, thankful only for the invisible bursts of wildflower that pass unnoticed by the hurtling metal giants through which nights and days blend into greys and off-worlded tones and colorations without which life could say nothing today but excuse me and pardon my elevation without which nothing yawns before the pit but still it is enough, my fingers stroke the coarsely grained edge of glass bladed grasses then move against the wind that stirs briefly before settling into small crevices and passages through which wildlife moves without the help of light, whiskers quivering dreams and illusion alike into walls lined smooth by the tranquil rotation of the years and seasons under the light of harvest moons come and gone without whispers or calls in the night.

And still I find time to look out over multi-terraced landscapes, crawling illusions tempting fate to one more round against which I hold candles and peace and promises never met. Other-worldly beings cavort but leave me to my meditations, unsure what to think they cross by over rivers and creeks I saw listed in nature programs many years ago. I am the red and groaning membrane of future progressions and recessions, without end or number but still, when there is time, pausing for breath, slowly moving muscles worn but not yet faded beyond repair. Without braggarts and dullards alike the world would become unbearably mundane, sucking the life out of tissues and vomiting out nothing more than words, in endless series and numberless sets. Although my loins quiver at thoughts of unbearable grandeur, the sound of type setting itself to rest after too many nights without sleep sends soothing vibrations across the floor. I watch fascinated as the characters flow over the wood and tile, around furniture too obscure to date although the effort is made, if only to save face. I send out long strands, lined with silk and rare minerals, knowing nothing and having less even to say, although the words torrent forth as if carried by hands of steel. It is not chance or coincidence that halts the rain and sleet in its path; the knowledge of ten thousand years is not enough to fill even the space between two moments, let alone seize the actual fabric between which space and time dance with sluggish steps. And still there are those who doubt.

Knowing no way to stop, the morse-coded signalings fire at random bursts then cease, as if under foreign control. The first of many concrete barriers crosses under feet shod in better times against the snow and sleet that fills our hands and eyes and blinds the windows which gape without seeing the feet scurrying by in rapid successions not worth tracking or even noting beyond these few words. The light worms around interplanetary bodies, not caring if anyone sees or hears its progress, set only outwards, without question or reason. Inside the lanterns move about with eerie frequency although no voices respond when I whisper greetings. I give small gifts wanting no return and embarrassed when they are noted and stamped received. Long sad waves move slowly across seas barely even undulating yet still daring to call themselves great, spoiled by the tides – moon and sun alike – and waiting for words out of which to carve destinies built for stone faced idols and drunken fools. My feet crunch into paths forgotten by the years and the angry young fools who no longer care to hear anything not available to every other set of ears around the world. My steps sink in quicksand and rot, leaving rumour and gossip about which every mouth can twist and turn for eons to come. My mouth moves forming syllables and meaningless phrases to be taken as courtesy by those poorly versed in etiquette, but still there are few reasons for complaint or retreat.

With no abandon whatsoever the carefully laid plans of endless genetic spiralings move forward and around then to the side without plan or destiny but content to go one more round. All logics pale then crumble – the birth and death of one thousand then a thousand more means little more than a mark in a book never to be read again, despite the careful record-keeping of its tenders, who remain hidden in dark obscurity, unwilling to face the light of public scrutiny. And who, after all, can blame them? I send passages back then forth, arranging the slides and control levers as if they were symphonies lined in unruly queues, romping about like small children in need of supervision. As days melt then disintegrate into formless meanderings of used encyclopedia salesmen, offering last years models at rock bottom prices, I cannot help but stifle chortles of uneasy laughter. To be hostage and slave then cruel master licking his lips over the sufferings of yet another helpless victim is too much for words alone; it is, I suspect, necessary to see the contortions necessary to carry this awkward scenario out to believe in its twisted reality. Still I carry on, knowing it is not reasonable to expect film crews at such an early date. It is best to record, re-record, erase, modify – until new worlds rise alone with the most prosperous real-estate moguls and oil tycoons. Seeing nothing is the most that can be hoped for although I resist with tenacious strength all attempts to gauge out my eyes. The frost and moonbeams provide enough light together; what more can a man ask for today, after all, than an easy pace and enough food to keep hunger at bay?

With slow churns the metal groans uneasily, wanting nothing more than quiet days in small towns with broken bodies slowly roasting over pits fueled with dramatic overtures to pumpkins, wheat grasses waving over dark soil, and finally the muted roar of traffic on far off highways. Bent and strained still the rusted forms hold against the sun; spirit flowing as always the quick fingered pick-pockets keep time to mortal decays and slumbers. I fold napkins and dolls' heads in preparation but know that alone my efforts will come to naught, although in bundles of three or four perhaps the story might turn out differently. With straight shots and deviously wound arrows screaming up to the heavens maintaining uneven trajectories there are I admit times when the capitals cease to function properly; wasting away the door is held by anxious administrators posing now as doormen, now as bellboys. The choice leaves me cold although it is always a matter of amusement to see the frenetic energies with which they attack their efforts. I sail across winds and then land in quiet glens, knowing my efforts are void and bound by custom and law in even the best of times. Without believing a word spoken before or after the birth of time I watch the gods tending the new child's every crying need, offering breasts spiked and shielded against all invasion they sing songs of blood and conquest.

In rested years the first men walk on moons and sing glorious ballads in praise of each and every step they take; in the canyons and crevices I call home the tears fall for each lost mile and the broken dream that fuels those skyward journeys. In celebration of crushed and grated futures we gather round fires built of past deeds and raise glasses up to a sky without charioteers or thunder. With eyes of glass we peer straight into smoke screened black spots driving migraine filled missionaries of gloom and despair before us like flocks of granulated sheep, freeze-dried for the convenience of consumer and producer alike; a marriage of the most pure kind, a harmony of interest never before seen on the planet we are assured although still doubt remains, an unbidden spectator glancing every now and then nervously down at its watch. While sands melt and call in plaintive voices across the night the work of future gods goes on with furious abandon. It is all I can do to simply put marks before and after, appending the work in hopes of one day finding room and time to place counters and glass beads before the quiet rooms filled with deep and profound matters against which we are best advised to remain seated, lips pressed firmly together, arms held high over our heads for improved circulation. Still the labor is glorious, and not without its rewards, although the days provide meager sustenance and the nights more than not go unfilled, shallow reminders of choices never made but turned over like well baked breads nevertheless. Sighs and moans and caresses stand to one side, shining suits of unsoiled armor to the other, in the middle rests a cross through which are pierced more tales of quests unfulfilled and burdens carried for the pure glory of labor itself. I struggle to see the meaning of such signs but can do little more than walk without disturbing the occupants, who otherwise might simply sit down in front of the television, content to let matters rest where they stand.

My battles call out names in colorful harmonies for which tourists line up for blocks to observe; the shameful nature of the proceedings goes unnoted, uncared for in the uproar. And within each shout and greeting stands quiet pride and diligence caught always off guard, not sure whether to sit or stand but knowing something more is called for somehow. Warm hearted burghers nod unwittingly, carving cakes and pies and pouring wines by the jug, red and alive with the blood of a thousand years distilled into life giving forms along which we build walls and fortresses, careful always to protect that which is most valuable but which always at the same time goes unseen – uninvited by the best families it skulks away, shamefaced at the prospect of future tables against which lean only the lean legs of peasants tormented by hunger and famines and endless migrations across steadily shrinking globes, it is sold for small change at flea-markets and department stores. We hold but know then only later where and what fills our hands; small gasps of pleasure aside there is nothing beyond or inside which can contemplate the true unbridled glory of man dethroned, cast back into the grime without a word of apology by amused deities, out for a brisk walk when confronted suddenly by a joke the magnitude of which we begin only at rare intervals to grasp, punctuated always by prolonged periods of self-important posturings and idiotic grimaces that can do nothing more than force snickers and bursts of unmitigated mockery into the hard concrete shapes out of which are cast the most magnificent edifices yet erected in praise of ourselves.

There is no smell of victory in the air, no parades to mark the day for future school children's history books. Without even a whisper the battle falls then fades into peaceful slumbers interrupted only by nagging doubts that it is only a lull, after which will burst out megatonages of explosives and nuclear devices by the score. Fires raging out of control will call for rearmamentation, although fierce negotiations will head off the struggle for a time. After that there is no telling, although of course I hope for the best, as we all do. The nature of the peace is uneasy from the beginning, as it should be. The politicians will make their deals and move towards consolidating their power, while insiders trade secrets and formulas for success worn already by time and the seasons. In spring the animals find their mates, some bonding for years at a time, to the surprise of all those involved. The movement of small bodies likened to the sap in a tree calls forth memories of days inside of which spun cocoons and larval creatures formed from the first clay itself. I sit spinning stories and knock cobwebs off of shelves long unused but helpful anyway, in each their small way. With pressures mounting the animals paw at doors, windows, bars and locked gates beyond which they believe freedom lies. Outside flies and other insects gyrate in mad somersaults across gymnasium floors. Across the way the lives of hidden memories vie for attentions while promising to keep alive the past which already, it is promised, can see mounds and candlelit glows across from which lie the dark and misty eyes that call me from the grave.

With hands of chromium steel the day holds out candles and shades drawn for better insulation from prying eyes; the fines mount by the moment but still I need nothing my crinkled crevices shout out to no one and everyone and the sun in-between the dawn which calls for days without warning or heeding signs cast up by demons uncontrolled by ordinances meant to protect the innocent. To sit and breath air stained by supreme exhaust leaves tears of acid burns floating out of ducts better suited for laughter and quiet dances across the terraced rooftops and blindfolded alleyways which cross the avenues at odd intervals. Billboards proclaim in infinite pointed types the end of war and death, famine and despair all in one fell swoop, without which the winds and turns scream for sustenance and comfort. Geese strut about magnificently, assured of their immanent succession to the throne, despite what any rumours to the contrary might suggest. In claw filled corridors magistrates cluck like nervous chickens before issuing the proper decrees and orders bringing finally in the language of the red taped wound doctors of official protocols the war to an end as well, months after the actual event, of course.

The attorneys pause in mid speech, not sure if they can believe their ears, but assured by nervous aides that the news is true. They pause to argue, noting that truth as such can never be considered absolute, but the courtrooms are barren, empty of life and voices countering and issuing forth the most solemn sophistries. Slowly the words sputter to a halt, then only silence is heard, punctuated by the rustle of legal documents no longer relevant but perhaps useful to future historians, without whom of course the world would cease immediately to rotate, choosing instead a stationary orbit and position against which suddenly the entire universe freezes then agrees to center itself once again around, which is something of a relief for the church, having only recently adapted itself, and then only in a half-hearted manner, to the realities of cosmic theories and astronomical claims bearing only the slightest of credence in well read circles, but accepted on faith nevertheless.

With high pitched turbine whines the mechanisms of corruption and decay, deceit and vomit – out of which pour fresh manifestos and declarations with apparently infinite abandon – grind slowly to violent halts, bearing the harsh fruit of broken promises as their offering to the promised lands. Departed lovers lament the loss at so early an age but still I can do little to help or bear witness against or for them, no matter how desperate their entreaties might sound in my ears. Small rats and dormice cry out in high pitched voices guaranteed in full by manufacturers of the highest repute. I want to invest my funds but find they have been frozen by agencies beyond my comprehension. Despite the apparently obvious financial hardships involved I carry silent testimonials to the dead and departed out of which we now carry frozen body parts and well aerated waters from which it is promised we can extract the necessary formulas and potions – of course I will have none of it, preferring instead the smooth touch of hands rough beyond measure or means. Silent warfares engage in submarine strategies and illegal arms tradings but still the voices in other rooms and chambers too far to distinguish accurately go on in tired repetitions of arguments and dialogues involving only themselves and echoes through which they swim like fish in pools of ink.

Traded services skyrocket stock values until ceilings arriving fresh from the printers must be re-established by impartial boards of inquiry. In days past the ratios are set by bribery alone; without complaint or bitterness the judges resign themselves and their cases to lesser powers, knowing the day has scraped over mountain edges of which little is known beyond the mere fact of their existence. Impact resistant domes built of polished glass and mirrored steel fresh from redesigned industrial plants the likes of which are promised to many but seldom delivered jut up from the landscape. Machinery gleaming but stained with memories of large caliber weapons offers itself like an anxious prostitute, although it says the prices will reflect all damages in excess of which the tribunals gather later in the month, unreported of course except in specialized journals which no one reads. To contemplate the end in such a manner exploits fears and unreason (paused as if over a freshly killed corpse, then moving about uneasily) then tosses them to the side, along with heavy relics of voices and sounds deemed obscene in bygone days. I stand waiting, unsure of my feet, hands stuck in wads of clay the size of small dirigibles. Although I am assured I worry nevertheless, if only for the lack of anything better to do. I want to examine again the microscopic entities which crowd against the bricks and glass of the sanitarium for which we have paid so dearly but still it seems too easy somehow, as if something were out of kilter and already on its way back into alignment.

Faced with such enormities I take refuge in the final frontiers of impermanence and all its blessed doctrines of impartial despair. With frost and glass the wanderer jumps then exclaims with loud voiced indignation that he should not be expected to put up with such conditions. Although he is right as far as he is concerned right fades to wrong then into pools kept intact only by modern conveniences like refrigeration and air-conditioning. Soot covered chimney-sweeps smile in secret anticipations of stained exhaust vents to come, bounding into their lives like rabbits in a hunt. My fingers tire then sound over boards and sticks without hope of finding the proper keys but the effort is all that counts I am assured again and again but no longer want to hear, my ears having grown moist and heavy, the winds extorting harsh irritants by the moment without notice or designation. Within the second splits again then over, over, over and then once more until nothing remains but the shell left for blue skies and vampire longings against which soft flesh sways with unbearable delights.

By the laughter of wolves and the worldly looks that surround the lakes with glee the jurors pronounce their guilty verdicts one after another, waiting for proper channels to clear. I stand of course as always looking on with the greatest of curiosity; in foreground camera sequences there is also an image of myself; within the eye itself reflects at least one hundred and eighty different versions back, from slightly different angles in every case making for a brilliant case study of social engineering at its best. Without fail the machines that drive me on labor under unusually difficult conditions; this of course being simply the result of superior german engineering. The cold eye of god without sense or meaning but still present as driver, coach and passenger whipping his back red with crimson deliveries out of which are handed very solemnly directives about the past. Turned on its side the matter still causes laughter in the better circles, although I offer only dreams watered down with the odd caress of angels dressed in blue jeaned wonder. Turning with blood cascading over the side of his head the boxer asks for a raise but to no avail; the dreams pay merchants in tender of raw flesh so no need, he is told endlessly, to ask for more material rewards. Blazing out of caverns and grottos warriors stream forth to do battle as they were told when they were young they would one day have to do. Transversing the globe they find no worries worth fighting for although the local concerns grow with massive bounds better suited for giants.

Despite endless cups of harsh black coffee the past haunts me with furious energies, spitting futures darker than black out over the sky with no further notice given than a quick hello. Reports flourish as to my where-abouts, then fade into tiny points of diminishing light sucked into glass vacuums filled with contorted beams of electronic matter. I watch, confident of my position only because I am unable to see the multitude that moves my eyes and parts too small to see but surely there, nevertheless. The deception is a joke well timed for delivery and good laughs but it is not for me a laughing matter; the seriousness of the affair overwhelms me and leaves me struggling for air, water, light to burn the day brown and soil to cast over my head and shoulders as token remembrances to lunacies past and still to come. He-males and she-males and re-males and split legged monstrosities around which dance wolves dressed to kill work together in irregular harmony, forming loose alliances which are not available for public scrutiny, despite their importance. The table-topped canyons shift with gay abandon, sending morse-coded laughter in twilight fit for kings and courtiers alike.

With blood still staining his lips the boxer crawls around in small circles, unwilling to admit the degree of his wounds. Although I sympathize I offer nothing in condolence, having been taught it is better always to stand on one's own two feet; having been crippled at birth made it more difficult but more rewarding in the long run. I listen patiently then turn away, unwilling to offer more than an ear. The arena fades then burns in small flames across the horizon, forcing light into areas better left untended. Taking advantage of the illumination I quickly walk away, wanting only to clear the world of unwanted suffering and pain. Although others work well and hard I am disinterested in their efforts, preferring the search before all. Standing on mountains rimming worlds of straw and fresh oats I look out against the harsh light that flows unfiltered through the thin air. For a moment there is no one there to see the pain that lines my face and hands. To relish each of these stolen instances becomes foremost but last as well, past the goals and dreams I offer up as if holding sand before the heavens. Despite the odd angles and irregular surfaces thrown into stark relief the nature of things seems refreshingly constant. Words thrown back and forth reverberate slightly, but cannot be taken for more than what they are. I quicken my pace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sunrise before heading to the plains and foothills, where I dream of finding small flocks of sheep waiting my arrival with anxious bleatings.

I am curious at first to understand the lands that envelope me in fierce embraces, legs twining around my back and thighs as if tomorrow could offer no apologies, but afterwards know the sand holds the key. I can say little more – the smoke and fire clears away behind me; the day shines red; the little light remaining merges with stone and wiry shrub but is still enough if I hurry to let me reach a safe place, or so at least I hope. With some surprise I offer my passport to a border guard who seems more than usually bored with his job. To move into more regular mesas is the work of only an instant I tell myself but this of course is only a lie, designed to give blind hopes to the sick and tormented souls which stand before me in long lines, holding out hands more often than not severed from their bodies. I look away in horror, not sure where to turn but knowing there is no other way. There are multiple echoes around me, surrounding me, cascading out over the plains below with dull booms. On the beaches naked flesh stands firmly against the sun, baked gold and tan it surrenders always drops of moisture against grains of sand. It is a matter of only an instant to work my way inside of these dreams, to excavate drama where before there was only tension and fear. The tragedies to come I welcome but will never be happy to see; the comedies I care less about, although I know they are there for others eyes and so must fly without wings one day. Shadowed canyons filled with gnarled trees and plastic droppings shower the landscape with an ancient odor of decay; in the eyes of crows shines out a red harmony, better left unattended in times wanting no more future signs.

Small workshops line the avenues, glowing in the dark with candlelight and the irregular flickering of kerosene lanterns. Despite the fragmented nature of the words I seek only small wonders about which I can write home at a later time. The sandals made with hands worn and frayed but happy still to have work grace my feet with dual tan-lines, one above and one below, having found some harmony in these off-colored spheres above which small demons send darts out at random, not giving a whit for public safety. In matters of scale I am no expert, wanting only a good size and a life worried free of fools and men who say they know a thing or two. I gravely offer the hand of the angels to a panting and rudely awakened collection of elements combined in carefree abandon – the mirrors shake then crack along carefully laid out fault lines, each mixture contorts itself into newly fitted gowns and tuxedos, yawning in ill disguised displays of boredom, but willing nevertheless to go on if only for the sake of appearances. Cold thought dances later in uncomfortable union with fires unworked for generations; still, there is room, and the walls have only recently been re-papered. The matrons who crowd around, happy to relive their most revered moments, offer congratulations tinged with envy and despair at the years that mark their faces with death and futility. With neither future nor past to hold with trembling hands the grooms and brides alike look away from forms and outlines guaranteed to kill the strongest romance. The lives of millions do not hang in waiting although there was some mention of a report on the local news, if the tapes from the recent earthquake do not arrive in time. The couriers sweat and pour out endless lives wrapped around ribbons of concrete stolen then wound into coils from which are sucked pure essences of radiating fury. To ask why at times like this is the work of fools, and no one knows better than us that fools are the mark and offer morbid trades against the future lives of children and the lost worlds of yesterday.

Standing in crowds whose numbers fluctuate too rapidly to allow for an accurate count I look over at the trees shifting nervously at their roots, unable for the moment to move but sure of slight progress nevertheless once night falls and deprives prying eyes of fair game. The pleasures mark stale trails over grassy fields beyond which loom houses marked for demolition in the better interests of the community. Always the echoes chase and quiver without wanting to attract attention. I take quick pot-shots at the blackbirds lounging fearlessly in the solitary oak trees that line the hills around me, knowing I will never hit them but enjoying the sight of their leisurely turns across the yellowed pastures and fields. The cold grease of forgotten cleanings oozes slightly in the dry air, reminding me of childhoods lost in distant recesses and cavities, unrelated always the words call out to the cry of crows and vultures, to the unerringly accurate swiss mechanisms that defeat our faces and force our arms into unsolicited bondages, hospital identification bracelets selling for upwards of a hundred thousand dollars if properly maintained. I have no mouth, hands, eyes ears nose, brain all the less, or even channels of nerve tissue descending against coarse grained fantasies. Without even these most simple issues I carry unbearable loads and deposit my monies faithfully in banks destined for failure. Empty ear-channels alone do the work of thousands, prepared ill against times guaranteed to be hard. Inside the width measurable by a tossed coin or a quickly covered stone, a cut knife vibrates with assuring resiliency. I throw peas and barley over tossed salads hoping they will take root if only in dreams. Cattle cross restlessly then migrate back over the hills, not willing to sound off in the proper order – a thing I should be grateful for, I realize, but find no time.

Carefully forged insects hop about in poor imitations of frogs and toads; the magicians facing long lines of unemployed mutter useless spells and manifest the wisdom of the ages in a depressingly uninformative manner. I take the hands offered then stroll down quiet village squares, sending flowers at unmarked but carefully specified moments to lists of recipients compiled in earlier days. The strut of worms defiles landed gentry whose holdings divide with every passing generation, until finally there are only crumbs not fit to feed the scavenging chickens that fill the air with dryly cackling laughter. The recommended doses having been far exaggerated, the opticians remove their eye-glasses and prescribe more sharply focused lenses. The danger being, of course, eventual blindness and the loss of all distant worlds – a small price to pay, really, if all goes as planned. The difficulty, as always, has been in finding glass that allows itself to be segmented into an infinite array of sliding mechanisms outlined by well-oiled brass fittings. As I handle the optomitron, as it is called by the skilled craftsmen who have finally solved the most difficult aspects of the problem, I am warned that despite its fragile nature, it requires harsh handling to avoid jamming and re-adjustments beyond those called for in the carefully inscribed owner's manual the chief glass cutter – who has been instructing me with unusual patience – hands me on a cushion fashioned from small pieces of unclaimed sunlight and windowless frosts.

Eyes moist with gratitude I listen then step quickly away, not wanting to overstay my welcome. Inside the shop all eyes turn back to their task, smiles crinkling the corners of faces used to hard work. Although the words forge strange boundaries whose outlines I resist as recommended, the comfort is familiar, perhaps found once before in dreams buried in layers of over-fatted nerve fibers. The optomitron sits coldly on the bridge of my nose, fading in and out of focus rapidly. The manual, which I only now stop to examine more closely, advises rest and the patter of small feet. I shake my head, listening but not wanting to hear. The matter is not as simple as it might appear; after all, the glass cutter had told me the words could not always be understood, even when their meanings seemed completely clear. There were two reasons for this, he had continued. The first, and most important, was the actual action of the optomitron itself. Since it was an active, as opposed to passive, signal processing device, one could never be sure of the message received, although the existence of a message could never be doubted. Second, and perhaps more interesting to someone with my limited perspective, was the shifting character of the letters themselves. Combining these two elements, he had intoned almost religiously, could do nothing to further clarity, although eventually matters would sort themselves out in some fashion or other. With that he left off, content to puff on a small bowlful of tobacco which he, he confided, had sworn off repeatedly, but which he simply could not do without. Compared with greater vices this surely was not a matter for concern. I had stood patiently, listening to his concerns but in all honesty not caring one way or the other if he smoked or not; if anything, the smell was soothing, although a little strong at times.

Fingers tensed slightly I left, listening to the voices that crowded around my hands and feet until only the waters could rustle more peacefully, the sky turn shades of violet orange red and darkest grey, the worn mechanism bridging my nose sliding through phased shifts and delayed reverberations. Strings of all sorts hummed quietly, content to let matters rest for the time being, around which I promised myself I would wind roses and daffodils if only given the time. Although I could not say for sure, I suspected the crosses that lined the gardens and showered the faithful with tears and blood must be somehow suspect. In the faded eyes I saw signs of death, of course, but these were always counter-acted by the cold glint of polished steel. Turning only slightly gave me an entirely new world, of unsure boundaries and fragmented horizons. I vowed to follow each and every partition to its root, caring not for the cost, and knowing I could do the same without the help of the exquisitely formed instrument around which light whirled and played in uneven concertos laced with dark and shadow. The murmurs ticked and counted moments without fail, leaving the best for last, and always to come.