conditionate Mar 24, 2009
INCONDITIONATE
| en clay tablets would have caught me unawares, unwrapped in line | n anew and covered in sleep's dewey remnant. There was a time wh | nds and burned in the fires of a thousand armies' failed battles |
| this sewage, tower-keeper; there are no paths which lead to tha | times, there is no good way to say I love you). And death, I thi | t and rotten to the core. There are no rains which can wash away |
| ight and yawning; the ghosts and mysteries of night long fled. T | here is something to waking, a fresh start in the same world bor | cks for another day. The garden, in the morning, is thick with l |
| a splintered tree, growing for years and now trampled underfoot, | esperate act of duty, leading eventually to the manifestations w | he facets of our cognates, fuelled by the wax of the bees dronin |
| beaten into the earth and devoured by sightless creatures. For | nk, is no parenthesis, placing upon life's branches an oft delic | t house. There are only scraps of knowledge, scattered to the wi |
| tered, the universe, in the beginning, folded upon itself in a d | I discover no great thing, recover a tattered flag, wind the clo | g in jazz in our minds. Quite unlike anything we have yet encoun |
| e all take for granted. A drier sentence has never been written. | orld, we are living memories that act, animate ideas exploring t | , broken bodies lying at the edges of vision (these are the haun |
| ts you feel but do not see). Truth is not a shining thread, but | n, fire of the burning library bakes books to perfect (in these | that is what we have and they lack, is it not? A vision of the w |
| ately balanced golden fruit, rotting from the inside out, corrup |
And it is with herring in arm that I welcome you to the feast of Saint Ba'al, patron saint of forgotten gods. Have a seat, but don't stay too long. You might get lost. Unfortunately, that is the way at these sorts of meetings. Everything gets mixed around and it becomes hard to tell which way is up, the edges blur, you start to feel like you've done this before, you've seen that gaggle fly past in the night and you've got to get home, inexplicably it begins to rain and everyone is screaming for the obits (underworld umbrellas, that is, you might say remnants of a dark age. You might say the black umbrellas were opened too soon, in anticipation. You couldn't read the headline from across the room but if you could it would read Your Name Found Dead Earlier This Morning in their garden, Hofstadter in hand, a wispy smile up at Michaelangelo, across the wall, You know you really should get that fence repaired?
conditionate
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