Today is Sunday, August 19th, 2018.
published in Volume 2, Issue 4 on July 27, 1995
1. It has been alluded to in past conversations discussed in darkness the vision forming while you circled the body (your compass needle spinning) Inklings, agitation -- the voice behind your ears whispering The aftertaste on your tongue the echo of dead words lost in the vacuum 2. Slowly (but not as unexpectedly as you might think) the idea surfaced, emerged like the naming of an era Inevitable, predestined, perhaps even deliberate but logic, religion, the sciences of delusion provide no answers Because you wished for it wept and fasted, wept and prayed nearly tearing your hair from its roots Studying the prophecy ignorant of the consequences You failed to see how the audience was growing restless how the language had become a mere catalog of verbiage They spoke to hear the sound of their voices They listened with forced smiles and subversive laughter impatiently looking at their wristwatches wishing it would soon end hoping for a distraction But now it seems so timeless as if it were ever different The past erases itself unless assigned a purpose 3. What is left in the world of the quotation mark? the annotated source, the etcetera? where the unique is but a black form, a shadow-puppet tangling its strings in the wind What has become of the comma, the period the exclamation mark? the unmailed letters? the telephones left ringing? There is nothing but the sound of muffled breathing on the line 4. The void has been extended indefinitely, perhaps infinitely These glass walls thick and clinky (like an antique Coke bottle) The sucking of air slowly pumped from the bell jar You cloud the glass with your breath (though breathing has become more difficult) wipe away the fog with your squeegee-hand Curse your reflection in the mirror The greenhouse-sun soaks through warming the air though eventually it will become cold & quite comfortable You notice the eyes that glisten, pierce how they sparkle on the lens, penetrating They melt, burst, run down the face in the shuddering glare like the beetles you cooked as a child holding the magnifying glass to the sun to focus the beam