Thursday, April 4, 2013

Thinking today about doing something more story:


The sun shook its audacity loose and a cloud devoured the old wanderer’s
pond with the sun’s hubris as power. A steam rose from that uproar in the form
of a spirit in search of a body to inhabit when suddenly a child-oracle
appeared, etc…

The sun shook loose the onus of its blinding charisma and all the families
were driven into their lead-lined attics where they ate canned stews and where
everyone—the children, the parents, and even the old crones—became as blind
as moles, less adept. They sorted out their failures through touch, et al…

The sun had no magic, had become like the grim plastic bag wrapped around
the neck of a bird soaked in the oils of our sins. We lived in and among
the giant pits of unidentified flammable liquids we also drank for survival.
The pits shot up narrow flumes of fire we clambered when they froze during
the winters that had really become, literally, something else.

The sun became our nemesis. The sun was a fucker. The sun decided suddenly
to leave for another galaxy. The sun had a face that mocked us. Although some
thought they knew how that would go, they were mistaken. It went like what
the old conspiratorial pagans suggested.

The sun became emblem, and we worked hard to describe this,
but without eyes and without ink, and without hope and without the birds
to sing to us and without a shared rhetorical schema, we were left telling
really primitive stories with empty tins and with the unabashed and earnest
desire to create something like in the caves we would soon pollute
with our breath and our fluids and our overall ruin, which we still believed germane . 

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