Thursday, January 25, 2018

25 January 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. But even honesty goes rigid like a body on the field of battle, one arm splayed above a broken shoulder, the other hand clinging to mud. Two diplomats on horses meet in no-man's land to broker a deal. It's so much easier post-apocalypse, when there's nothing to exchange except wounded prisoners. After Cadet Bone Spurs' latest tweets, the nuclear clock advances. We have an ammo box and iodine, just in case. To think about death was easier when it came more slowly, or news of it. The process is one of steeping, of dipping tea bag in hot water and watching steam become cloud become mundane revelation. He saw Jesus in his, while his friend found Satan, assuring him he'd sell his soul for money. And he did. In his Christmas letter he told us how much we'd love to be his boxers (dogs, not shorts). One was named Buddha, and the other Daisy. The earth of Volcano is fragile, like crockery yet not so solid, layers of ash and rot and moss and ponds of water after rain. Earth is not institution but it dies. Bully bulldozer takes out segments of forest to install strip mall or suburban tract house. The hardware store proclaims “True Value,” but there's nothing there except tourist trinkets and monster drinks. The conspiracy is as true as you make it, because inference is more powerful than document, and far less dull. Better to tell the story of an FBI that undermines Hillary Clinton only to advance her power grab over the greatest candidate in history, or to vaunt the white supremacist as a man of the people, where people is defined as anyone who has never crossed a border. We push our toes to the line like servers, hopes focused on the box before us, which we see through the net. We cannot play without the box, we opine. I can't remember now what year Buddha died.

--25 January 2018

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