Mise en Abyme
dialogue boxing the day away while nature spits and hums beyond the margins getting away scot-free the rest of us taxing ourselves
with the course grit of fight’n’flight office protocol white walled in plenary session chatrooms while the infinite recursion feedback loop sucks teeth from gums, gums from jaws,
piety from the heartland. All along I’d spaced twice after the period, having been a good student at one point in the mid-‘80s. The style manual sang to me, flitted by breezy passion, gave
handjobs to a lonely archivist, pierced the page thrice and thrice again, clamped the rings shut and sucked the blood from the pinched finger’s tip. All for what. Sophocles said he’d
forgive Philipp August Böckh, but only if the encyclopedia could adequately feed the fire for eight nights, and when it did not, and all
but the dog perished from hypothermia, he finally
and without fanfare fled the gates of that forsaken city with only a stick of chewing gum and the verbs he’d managed to wrest from the Berlin Academy’s reference librarian, non-plussed though she was
at his uncouth methodology & personal hygiene. Which leaves us with what. And breaks us of habits that heretofore defined our character, passkeyed us into the hearts of commonfolk and politicians, provided
succor while we stood shiftingly in the ghosts’ line waiting for our progeny to push through to whatever future might redeem us & the work with which we chose to occupy the daylight.
I could go on, but the point here is to arrive in presence, to instantiate a body with a body, name the thing we could never name until just this moment.