Prelusion ends. Masternoon lands full blare.
stirs, smell of chlorine fluorescing in the lobby. My friends,
electricity in mercury, broken signs, shattered hasps to our plastic
pasture, I can’t see lettertalk anymore. Smthng in my brain jms,
wnt clck ny frthr.
Light from one color to another (jumps).
The pack moves, that is the signal, pulsthrough openings, flow
as day tips downward, another lobby. That’s time, a gravity hall.
Light tubes quenched, the pack submerged, at night it corrals me
again—hum—that necklace, those knifey lips, the hollow gilded
hoof—flute mouth—a neck into muteness—
After the blackout, the whiting in. The rim of day, my friends.
We climb the laminated portal to a smaller origin. Same fountain
circled by plastic ferns, same round window at the end, but all
scaled down. That is the narrow success of copying.
I tell them I’m a pack of literate mammals. That word-burn
yearns at me in single fists. I tell them the one symbol I can grasp
is already burning my ankles. Icantreadsigns. I claimb wondiws
intoothr roms. There’s a conchness to this place, slowly spiraling
towards a sensor.
Today our pack clumped to inspect itself
and I confirmed my theory that at the smallest level each of us
is a lake, floating, floes of black tags
caught in a viscosity. Clogged
barcodes. This explains the scanner at every threshold. Its thin
buzzing line. They are compounding our shapes into models
of higher-order behavior. They say I’m looped but I say
that’s what they say.
A false jay is hidden in the polymer forest.
Its eyes plugged with ball bearings, skin cinched over a wire cast,
is it flying away or only shrinking? Piping
or piped through?
The walls bulging like translucent cheeks, like notions inflated
on the tongue of the pack—a spiral
parallel to itself—we are a
circuit, redblue bleurrrrd, the signal failing, toomuch allatonce,
lurching round a censor.
Rooms choke and the pack thins out
like a beaded necklace. Lines dissolve into their demons,
their cursive. Lord, I say. Governor. The jay as tiny in my claw
as a light switch, how far away it must be. I lie under black
sprinkler rain, an O glimmering over me that tucks
under its origin—a tighter version
of its past. I call, What noise
are you making in those curves? Our waxed world responds
by declining. Singign. Singn. Sight. Let takewing take wing.