(no subject)

First a favorable bankruptcy law, now lenders go from 2% to 4%. Coincidence? I hardly think so. On the other hand, fiscal responsibility is a hard row for some people to hoe and they need to. We did CCCS and it was hard. Companies don't like getting paid back on your schedule. But it was worth it. I think there's a lot of families out there who will be pushed off the ledges, though, thanks to these double whammies.

a tireless refrain, a laugh at the madwomen, a lust for the curvature of trees

You know, you remember how it went you remember how it ended or how it started to end ("All you know I know:") (we are all lightning and when we are all lightning there is no news) green leaves and whirling atoms a gulf of space between particles, the half distances between us the impact of my violence my confidential utterances.
make me water endlessly. One day I'll reflect nothing in that mirror, cross those forgotten bridges, the bowels of the City and push it from within, let it devour itself.

In cool morning light she found herself alone at the edge of an asphalt precipice. She'd calculated so many times the location, dripped black ink down her ledgers repeatedly until the numbers rang clear, that arrival at it was anticlimactic. There were supposed to be a dozen transmitters here, a kind of wild carnival of signals outpouring. She'd measured this one and that one, assured herself the repeaters she'd found all pointed here: a shallow basin of land northwest of Main and Main, west of the fountain square, undulant streets and byways, some unpaved and rutted; overgrown patches, vacant homes, stores boarded or simply empty- she was sure she'd seen tentacle vines creeping out the glass and tile storefronts in some places- or had passed a phantasm of a junkyard with thick green moss carpeting every car and rusted hulk, trash heaps, sandy mounds seeping oily residue as if some giant had dumped enormous piles of it to soak up oil that he'd spilled; a park, abandoned now, that someone had obviously tried to transform into a kind of farm, twisted tomato plants rampant upon a forgotten baseball diamond; angular blocks defined by gravel roads and ancient stucco houses or seemingly more ancient trailer homes, hollow windows agape, exhaling curtains into the breeze, flowers upon the carports. And at the head of these, this spot, the undeniable location of the transmitters. Except the precipice and the broad barren hole before her belied her math. She muttered momentarily, refigured a bit here and there, stared into the shadowed basin, squinting.

They grip memories yet to be marred. Walk forward so slowly but with a kind of mad joy in their faces, moving toward adventure. Morning rode down on me.

He bounce downhill, caromed down rocks and fingered his way through piles of broken brick. Eyes always on the long wall of the City of the Markets of the Dead, he hummed something like a prayer and longed to be with her in the presence of the third person: their figures silhouetted dramatically, heads bent close together muttering or embraced and wet with saliva, sweat, tears. His hold on each topmost cinderblock clenched and released clenched and released. He'd walked the northern perimeter, cleaved to the wall here and there, hoped to find a climbing place or gate. But the gates were south, or east. At them moved women and memories of women. Long fingers, black hair, swift red mouths and their flashes of teeth: his head ached at the memory of them! So he'd chosen to walk west, prayed some forgotten road had made it out to some forgotten gate, that he could flash through, push into the edge of the city, a tiny presence of contagion within the cell walls.

Of course something had gone through first. A sizable pile of dark timbers and faded bricks malingered at the far northwest corner of the wall. He might once have felt his heart skip at his fortune. Imagining himself an unlikely person of luck, he spit on the ground, at the rubble, onto the dusty surface of his hands. The ritual calmed him, and he breathed calmly as he picked his way through the wall at last, penetrating the City, an unwatched-for gamete of trouble, on his way south.

O City, your green will fade and we'll see through your trees at last and in your barrenness we will mourn your memory, our memory of you, my mindfull of wishes and heartbeats, skins of meadows, eyes like bricks and butterflies, the great release of air, an exhalation of my entire body. Lost!

I remember holding Kiki, unbroken smooth skin of his chest, sweet curve of her thighs, tousle of hair above—and of course the memory of those wings at her/his back, fading but true. Oh the feel of grass on our skin was the flavor of lemons, the texture of cake and a clean white memory of tart icing. O body. O taste of forgetting as you crumbled against my lips. I wanted to see him in that great meadow, naked but for his wings, hair lifted, a cloud of dandelions about him: the straightaway-stolen memories of 20 years of phantasies wrenched to life before me at last. I watched my hand at her shoulder, traced the curve of his/her spine and remembered forward this vision of him among the drone of bees, burst flowers, timely wind and tousled hair. But I hadn't remembered as clearly the forest that bordered that meadow, west and south.