What are the facts? Failure of the Imagination. Nothing unimportant is forgotten. We create our own dossiers. Map our errant desires. PERVERSIONS OF THE NEW FLESH.
To disappear, arrive in another place, with no name and no past. To say, hello, my name is Anthony, I work in auto insurance. All sins deleted. Lime soda at the bar of a Holiday Inn, at the edge of the orbital road. A club sandwich please. Yes please. The slate wiped clean. How does the song on the radio sound now?
Everyday is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Everyday is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine
A clear conscience and with the future beckoning and everything waiting, poised in potentia.
You never put a foot wrong. your friend’s name was Jared.
Poem For Sancho Panza
What I would have speak would stay silent. How to lure the crab from under the rock?
And what if it cannot speak but only scream?
If there are no words, no way to notate the howls and racking sobs in language?
There is something too large for my eye to encompass, something down there, in that sea, too big, too broad, too heavy, and, unable to see it in its entirety, I cannot speak of it. Can say, only that it is big, and that it weighs more than I can bear.
An island, sunk beneath the salt, it’s villages, their shrines, their hearths, their marketplaces, sunk also. Forest, field, sloping hills, streams sprung from those hills, winding, skipping over scree, widening, to sea shore. Sunk.
Small idols of shrine and hearth, clay, fire-hardened, or wood, whittled, or stone, carved, sunk also.
It’s people, who laughed, and drank, and sometimes, were moved to song, sunk also, drowned, that is. And the things they would do, will never be done. Love, and other things.
Lost. Is a life of such little account?
Yes, I know, there was error. On my part also, and that cannot be ascribed to youth, for I am not young.
We walked the mountain paths of scrubby Hispania, the sun, hot and hearty, and we sweated and cursed, dust in the mouth, and you talked of food, and thought of food, complaining cheerfully, as the part dictated.
What makes Sancho Panza different from other men? He drinks as they do, is as lazy as they, and as gluttonous. His stomach speaks of that, it says, in its roundness, this man, is a man of this world, not any other, and yet, who can dream as Sancho dreams?
Till the world melts away, so that if the storyteller says forest, then trees appear.
People keep crossing over. What do they know that we don’t?
Encroaching Apocalypse is logical certainty. It gets closer with each movement of the second hand, necessarily. The faster we travel, the more energy we consume. What is Terminal Velocity?
The rich live on the top of the hill. It is safe from flooding and offers a defensive advantage against any attacking force. They build several stories below ground and store tinned food and bottled water. Home cinema. Infinity Pool. Nuclear winter. Ash ceiling. Sun blotted out.
The mushroom is the fruiting body of the mycelial network. Emerging from their universal veils.
Nuclear Porridge. Human custard.
What would we keep? A punctilious transparency of air. Milky mycelial network. The starry spiral. Heart becomes weightless. Veil falls. The words come into sudden, empathic focus. Each node in the network connects to every other node. Neural pathways. Barriers to travel are lifted. No Borders.
The pass in the mountains is located. The ford over the river is located.
Roadbuilding, no, pathfinding. An Edge is a visual representation of a relation. It is a line that connects two nodes.
Pioneer is usually not the
Winner due to the social conformity