For all they say about life going on like sitcom programming, if someone threw a lead brick at the set, some great giant with hands like leg of lamb, by chance afilled with drugs and liquor, then everything's cancelled. This turned-on Domination we call sweet existence is frighteningly hot and fragile, a tiny aria; we can always see the crystal shatter, become nothing at end but dry footsteps, a papery shake in a soft afternoon.
Out of the Hitherwhere
I ran a thousand volts through an old telephone receiver, and watched the thing explode like a mineshaft. It was just as I suspected: deceptive communicatons, what eternal ether there may be, it's no match for action, red shock that is its own medium.
Days of Birth
Here we have an aspect of fine wine: the stanched-blood stain lying like a beggar gone to earth, and no one will wipe this up, will take this death off the earth, or move it aside, or burn it. Here we have the glass I handed you, and you have the stem still grounded in the world of your hands, the hands that spill like a mother, that bring everything forward, bloody, to live.
Empties Coming Back
Mechanical way: an arm like a motor in the old, plasticized miracle of motion, progress. Don't start to the right or the malice of the animals will be unaccountable. Begin like a bridge begins: arch forward into conversation with something beneath you, suppler, too. You won't be the first stranger to assimilate bones into dice, robotic metals into a lover's eye, hovering deftly over the house like a winter god. The telephone rings just once but never picks up, premonition you can ignore. With accent on the present, start again.
Call Me Not Back from the Echoless Shore
Here comes the scream factory: small keys twirling under a tongueless glaze. Mozart by the twisting ton, ode to novocaine, old novena for the last and final quiet. This is the precinct of preternatural lies, of colored beans and rumors of more efficient ways to howl. Who can better our old screams? Will you do it with money? Not even. Take a listen at this keyhole: hear them building screams from whispers, darning cloth from teardrops, hanging key chains, the little ones -- those frozen particles of time.