-Peter Ciccariello
On 9/9/06, Allen Bramhall <
[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
when I say dad, the stem of the mountain waves. English is a perch, but
is the perch a fish? is a fish a word over and above how I remember dad
as dad? questions result in sunken parts of speech, and then I remember
that the wind blew like something straight. that straightness, it is so
Red Chinese, when you think that Tibet once had a nation. but nations
aren't terrific, they are involved. the US arrived in the nick of time,
a nick that this US incurred overnight. night was on top of the
mountain, or near enough. you think air is precious? try 28,000 feet,
and the complete cartoon. I'm in this tent that's very coffin-like: I
like to use my imagination. my dad is dead in what I call the recent
past. my mother is long gone, an echo when I stop to dream. air is thin.
everything seems deadly, except then I repeat some mantra that exists in
partial time. partial expectation, partial bodyweight, partial document
while waiting. the mountain's stem wobbles with center. a dusting of
rain can't penetrate the memory that would get me thru the night, here,
in this document. rain has frozen into total plausibility. a person
could structure properly to the top of this so called tallest thing. one
could leave the mountain, eventually. this story becomes a story, like a
ride off a cliff into the complete doze of a mounain full of snow. snow
wants to stay. the sun finds crucial extension and bursting into song.
some semi-trillionth of a second lets some vulture-goaded Big Bang
extend to the point of matter. grim glaciers lope over the tops of
impressive mountains, like that's going to bring John Lennon back. it's
no longer the John Lennon that fits the space, it is Paris Hilton. and
this Paris Hilton is on fire, literal filling of flames that lick all
the dishes that she has ever eaten from. she's Tom Cruise and she sinks
into snow. snow means something, someday. dad wants to be goodbye, but I
won't let him. mom too. my reflexes turned professional.
