What’s an antenna for, or rather, what does it want?
And what’s any desire, except fuck all? Nobody takes
the stairs up to the attic anymore. This was our world,
and we learned to speak in dust. I sat, then I started
counting, in the terrible white glow of the atrium, its
huge casements opened to the phenomenology of air.
I can get there. I just don’t know how. The corollary
is understood. You were defined by your absence, by
the realization that you were never you, a construct,
like propriety. Thought unpins itself. I have flexures,
and a new way of speaking, with strange, asymmetric
pauses, and in koans that tell all that I care to about
the tyranny of rain. What I want is the solace of a sky
filled with lambent motes forever held in suspension.
Signals are everywhere, but they are not ours. You’ve
cast them into something other, phantasms, or worse.
Jeffrey Little | (culled stone falls in flakes)
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)