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Just folded, like a handkerchief or a hinge.

By Anselm Berrigan

These prefab greens are part of a sale system of red dots reserved for those whose demise was thought predetermined by the timing of their abuses. You are asleep under a stitched face sold for warmth between scales of extremes in snowfall, memorial readings of butterfly attacks on Seventh Ave., and the exile’s couplets refusing dream’s capacity to give outline of body to I who were alive. The restroom is for steel cat customers only wearing expensive jackets three sizes too small. There’s something insidious about this music one pays to listen for, as if the perk of employment is lacerating the ears of one’s artifice with togetherness.

Dilated pupils follow the local smoke signals, trading the rainbow broke into tears for a deeper well from which to pay the bills. I see your indifference and raise you a practical salute. Isn’t judgment an overly natural phenomenon, a light matter in need of deeper perversion? There is the diner fantasy in which the body next door demands to be taught something. Proof of useful existence turning into a welcome ledge. I’m working through these recalcitrant responsibilities. I get sent some messages meant to protect our mutual mess. I feel like an amputated leg.

I’m skeptical of that place’s relationship to place, it’s projection of other memory. But is the will to force the issue anything more than necessary gambit to pass the time beneath a veneer of confidence? There is no bond of reality between money and enough. I gave up early on the search for the source, having taken halting steps along such recovery as to be depicted with stiffer hips than previous carnations endured. And yet it was not so wracked with difficulty, that disavowal of energies conjured from pictures of plagues. I had some images, their floating contours bred to provoke a system of scanning I’d later mean to acknowledge and lose.  That’s taking credit for waking up, and we don’t like that.

Three encourages bad decisions, hand drawn to simulate the time we stole at the well-lit end of the street. Someone gave me a hawk’s name, I forgot it, told someone else it had a name, though obviously without participating in the act, the hawk I mean, with regards to non-participation, a certain protest on my part, this forgetting, and I daily resist looking up its name on the web, so as to keep things unreal. And that’s what I get for attempting to separate nature from naming, another set of giggling decisions taunting us as we delve into the drop off service. You can certainly borrow the seat next to me, elevated as it may be, homogenous without shadowy distinction.

I take pleasure in the fact that our opinions have often the honor of coinciding with yours, and that we follow them, though far behind, proclaiming their ruddy virtues. On page four the king of the sea and his battle penguins ward off their colorful enemies, or so a scan re-reveals on a hunt for spoilers in the deep night. I can’t wait for you to operate. Tis not so necessary as it once was to fear and consider the present tense and plight of the cannibal, yet I cannot help but think these times infected by a deeper meanness than savagery. But, yeah, illusions are a dime a dozen and the twenty, that yuppie food stamp, will net the savvy shopper many minutes worth of illusory surfaces.

These liquid anti-oxidants for instance, that book of wisdom half a millennium old, the red velvet cupcakes tempting behind the counter. The signs for the washing of hands instill a deeper resentment towards dirt’s absence as I navigate the gaps between moments of silence. Wassup guys? How you doing? This is Wanda. Wiped out the mutant population with an utterance then vanished until redrawn this very evening. Spirituality, human emotion, the weight loss of history, and selved identity: these would be little remarkable in such a scheme if it didn’t produce cacophony. But it’s sad, I like to touch the parts – to be the last person to touch the part that’s coming off.


Posted in Uncategorized on Monday, April 5th, 2010 by Anselm Berrigan.