The Tale of Fake Lake and the Man-made Clouds

The Tale of Fake Lake and the Man-Made Clouds

for Lee Foust

"One set of cut marks does not make a complete case for cannibalism," said Francesco d'Errico, of the Institute of Prehistory in Bordeaux. It was also possible that the jawbone had been found by humans and its teeth used to make a necklace, he said."

Yes, I think I too have been guilty of thinking what will become of my so-called remains and those of the others maybe the beloved whose skull I find half-buried, recognizable only by the crooked teeth, in a strange vision of departures dreams made for me, in the open territories bounded by the city, the urban-urgency keeping dreams incomplete. How the box turned inside out shares edges with the other walls of the box whose precipitous verges I climb and nature's cardboard canopy which you cannot find here, how it...I don't know. It's as if this man I am wanted either to write a sentence or sound a silence long enough that he could walk around in. While at every period he falls outside. The roars are phantasmal yet no less disturbing thereby and therefore all the more maddening. How to stop the creation again is not an option. Pigeons. Clicker lighting the stove. A faded applique cherubim on the pillbox and unlit candle its wick clean, white, straight peaking out of a small copper cup next to the stack of blank note-blocs on which there should have been written in spidery hand the angels gnarled in cataracts and fossilized rills---I could have been reading someone else's mail, maybe you are reading this too, a voyeur and a catalyst, in someone else's mail (it certainly would be more exciting than entering even the most malkevitch of minds, another persons little life so much larger than your eyes) all of which is uninclined to comment back, its head's spiked with fish-fins waving and fanning aside the resistant masses into the disappearing depths, the depths of do and the depths of do-not, the depths of know-nothing-about-it still captured up in the slipstream and storming down several millenia of monsoon, a godawful smelly hopeless muddle bubbling with sacred hearts' barely remembered names out to seas only ideal shores prescribe and whose about-face showed clear in all the mirror's butterflied alibi's that their hacked open world wound up found in the bottom drawer of a samurai wanderer's satchel after years of east calling east in the shadowless ooze. This was the substance after all sticking my shoes to the surface of a street-paved with silver, a sky made of gold, a rainbow's pavillion structured by the heated dune turned into glass. Remarkable for how many wells dug turned dry or not. The unceasing whirlwind, the sacred becoming profane and the profane sacred and my two-cents have had both faces erased. He takes out the whole ball of wax and peels it rather like an orange and stands back holding the small orbicity of glass--what a rind it was, they will say-- into the light of the sun and his eyes burn holes into the tiny bubbles locked in ages ago. The earth seems like such a memory. The bubbles stand separate far-flung and hanging like dots in a dark sky there is no hope to connect. There is no hope but to stare long and hard and watch all the things flow through once again and repeat every action the exact same way as before with a small shift in emphasis that upsets the hand and downsends the unlikely orb rolling, imperfectly round, on its own, just as Jack, setting down his lanterns, chalks up his cue, and steps to the table to break.

24 sierpnia 09, poznań-dębina