Winter 2011

from The Squeakquel

I remember one night as a kid sitting in an over-lit Subway, nursing an
enormous Dr. Pepper, being 14, in love with my solemn isolation &
considering, lost in a trance of new thoughts, the fact, or the meaning of
the hard yellow both I was sunk in. I was trying to picture its origins &
sources, who’d made it & where, & under what conditions. Until then there'd
been a fuzzy kind of magic that governed my relation to things & their
appearance in the world, but the table seemed to quit this spell, suddenly
breaking through clouds. Deprived of my immature chains of causation through
which to substantiate the facts of its existence the table seemed to seek
not the break down of a magic but a better brand of sorcery to compliment
the absence of a theory I was wholly conditioned to persist in. The table
grew tired of feeling my eyes boring into its surface with mute
incomprehension, & so, as if to satisfy my mystical impatience leapt up &
started dancing there, not possessed, come true. When it danced it was like
a Swiss army knife dancing with each step revealing more lacerating plumage
that cut through the tender & tactile air above my head (which had something
like the dampness of a sapling about it) & when it was done with its volleys
& cuts a dewy light-bulb had been carved & stationed in the orbit of my
skull. It burned warm like a halo & multiplied too; I would find it screwed
into the socket of every single lamp, fastened under the cradles of
glass-hooded streetlights, & fixed into heaven—the sun.



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