New Dark Ages

1848

1848 Uneven sounds whiten the pavements after nightfall. The tall hats of rebellion have taken on a life of their own, floating and rearranging tirelessly over the pavements of the old streets which by 3 AM are white as bones. Every hour of my sleep is a useless rebellion. I dream that you return to hear one last argument, to touch my face in the hallway a last time before the interdiction, the yellow bulb between apartments sputtering like a bad kiss as you go. Justice demands that no one be loved for himself. Freedom demands that each kiss be a contract between desire and the unformed constellations of all objects—whatever is dreamed, whatever is stolen from the thief of possession, whatever strikes the bone of pavement as a woman steps out of a tenement into the permanent rebellion of which she is blameless. In 1848 the social contract becomes a horrid loneliness. Justice abandons freedom and freedom begins to think of itself as a new star, a light in a hallway and then a thousand lights careering over the bones of uneven pavement. When I lie down in bed tonight I will think of a new argument to turn the tide of rebellion against freedom, to press hands to faces until they touch bone. 4 ...