Deed

The Narrative Quiescence

The Narrative Quiescence of the abstract scene in the book jacket photo doesn’t have a setting so much as a latent impenetrability not unlike the lenient, bitter, bracketed latticework of emotion I’m culled to reincode for no reason lost, or lone & lost, or leftover & lost, or lacking loss based in a brick sickness of stilted words the scene leans in, fortunate, unmasked, taking its saturate incongruence to the hilt. Witness the solemnity as an excuse for however central such simple shapes sound in a show of coloured lights under the eves & notice how subtle the supple learn the other’s graffitoed violence. or a shapeless mass? or a loaf of tawdry shinola? or a list of fictions like days like stars burning like ideologically judgmental harmonies out of their trance a wake— patience plus thematically lactate spirits in neutral space yearn into the dreary cone it passed pale to taunt that step that blatant sleep that singular individual instance of one it. weird. yet monochromatic war was no longer satire so much as some technophobe totem experimenting over the balcony in the gas he goes to call & is stirred by — but managed somehow to boast 75 anyway, something about a drinking problem or a missing arm or an alien culture but I stopped it there feeling the terms alien & culture extremely personal & felt the danger, the literal urge in fact to actually say something about micromanaged alienation & the experience of audience participation as portrayed in the soft porn novels of my own two-teared society. Nevertheless, this urge passed & was lost, was gone, was jettisoned, was judiciously disearned, & left out— the lathes of the intervenient chaos locked in on the smiling clenched dust revealed to me in that light thus spoke or the sound of a footstep which unfolds which for it to be what it is for itself I give up & look up This is why the sick child falters in a field of abstraction. This is why chaos can be so disheartening to those who would control their lives. This is why the stalactites must be left in place for the next clumsy oaf. You are not here! Heads or tails with ink in it. Open &/or closed in the amused swerving, almost always unable to find the underlined passage. 76 ...