Thursday, September 28, 2017

Berlin 3

They are the measure of man. Man, specifically. Those who do not think as they do are stupid and wrong. They do not understand how anyone could be so stupid as to pray. Or who doesn’t want to live forever. These people are not really people then, in their estimation.

They pulled the wings off dragon flies because they could.

They built model rockets and killed the rodent-passengers because they could.

They drugged Cindy all those years ago in college and raped her. They weren’t sure which one. Neither paid for the abortion.

One of them is a genetic engineer now. The other writes AI code.

They can’t wait for the future.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Berlin 2

His skin is moist. This is because it is drawn tight, and he is exerting what is left of his pulmonary system to breathe. So he sweats a lot. His eyes fog up his glasses on most days. He habitually licks his lips, but he likes this humid weather because he takes a lot of blood thinners now.

People like to come to his parties. He usually has two girls, both dark brown and brought to this country. They change like the rotating taps in his brew pubs. The only time he wept was when he shot the last rhinoceros, because there would be no more to shoot.

Of course, his fingers are thick and like sausages. They know all the assholes. You can hear something like a snore when he is considering his next move. Don’t think he’s asleep, that’s how you get lured in, as though there is a sac full of bio-luminescent bacteria on a tendril hanging in front of his fat face.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Berlin 1

People say we look alike. I guess. But she is pensive, and often high. She has a nickel-plated syringe for the cocaine and oxycodone because it’s faster. She’s favored in the Scene because of her looks, her skill with a disturbing sentence and what she stands for which is what everyone else stands for.

She explained this to me with reptilian detachment. ‘You might find it funny that Foucault has described exactly how they built this City. Everyone looking at one another. Seduction to power. The archaeology of knowledge is right there under the fresh overlay. They’ll rip it up next week for a new building project you know. You don’t say the right things so you don’t’ think the right things.”

She’s right and I dislike her. If she makes it through this I suspect she will steal all of my best ideas and shoot them up.

Monday, September 4, 2017


Every fallen leave diminishes the autumn and the wind shakes down a thousand more. Is it just to make me sad? I am alone and the path is that sort of hard earth that is still waiting for the autumn of this place and rain.

The grasses are dry and brown. Who says that sleep only comes in winter. This pot of bamboo is in an end-of-summer torpor just as deep. But what am I saying?

Is the bamboo the stalk? The section? Does it only exist in the plurality of stems? I am not considering the roots, the runners, contained in by the pot, which is a there or here  depending on how close I am standing, but still a space defined by terra cotta. If I consider these facts for too much longer I will indict language and my senses as criminals committing malfeasance against the person and body of knowledge, which is, itself a word.

The modality that was warm certainty is shifting now to cold approximations. When I was a child, I imagined tiny agile ghosts in the whirlwinds. It was difficult to see them except when they were dancing in gyres of sand and flakes of dead skin. If I leave time at the foot of the hill, I can see them again on the aged and cracked edge of the pot.

The ghosts kick at the dead leaves, as though it is a swimming pool.