Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Tuesday Evening and...

Conveyed Sonics

The papers were signed with the smoke from a burnt-out moon

Water’s percussive state endures the limbs of a viol’s attempt to contain it

Embers dot the forest horizon, a symptom of electric solos around fire

Shades in a tale reminiscent of ones told outside time

Wild man in the mirror, molding into the world

“He had returned from Cloudland, and had at once installed himself again
in a castle in the air”

Hemmed in by a web, the fly changes its perspective

Freedoms have been allocated one at a time…

A grove where birds sit, weary from their heights of surrender

The map flung across the room and the shelter for itinerant stars

Sky ahead: must be our destination


He told me that the need to communicate gradually disappears over time; words lose their allure and their possibilities seem to carry with them a double-edged sword: one either succeeds or stupefies while attempting to get an idea across to the listener.

Silence begins to seep in, he continued, and there isn’t anything more to say. It no longer matters.




He was lost inside it. The hole, the movement from out of and then into. Was it red or green, sinister or airy? Were there signposts and the evidence of other travelers (plastic combs, a lone shoe sole, crumpled tissue) on the same route as he? He thought, or rather considered, the events that led to his walking down this particular trail. This was the same trail that split the two countries. It, the sky, opened and began to rain. His map was becoming more and more damp and then wet, and finally it disintegrated. Or did he only imagine this?
There’s a certain amount of control a traveler must relinquish in order to arrive at his destination. Or was it nowhere? Patagonia, northern China, northeast Thailand, the void of an Indian throng, blindness.

The sunlight was too bright. There were no signs that anyone had been there before him, or did he not notice the billboards, the “no vacancy” signs, the staring eyes of what few people were out in this scorching afternoon. These weren’t signs to him; they were aberrations. Aberrations of nature, cancerous growths on the surface of the earth, piles of dust and soot. These reminders kept him going. He knew they were there—he did have to occasionally stop to eat and the places he chose reflected the meager savings he carried with him. He drank and ate in silence. Once he put a coin in the jukebox to play “Start Me Up” while the other customers looked stupidly at him. They didn’t get the joke.


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