Sunday, March 12, 2006


The thin black hands on the large circular clock pointed to the twelve. Twelve. Midday. Eight plus four. The Eight of Cups when appearing with the Four of Cups can indicate a descent into morbid thoughts and actions. Twelve. Midnight. When corpses rise from their graves to tread a staggering path trough the dreams of children. When the witch’s powers coagulate in deep red menstrual spells that conspire with the werewolf’s silver moon to trouble the lives of haunted men. How many minutes to midnight on the doomsday clock? Twelve disciples for a guerrilla messiah. Twelve paces between the dead man in the green vinyl chair and the large circular clock above the nurses station.
White vacuum infinitely still, sterile and with no reference points. I looked down to watch the hairs flutter in time lapse motion on my arms and the nails grow and shrink on my fingertips. And though I could not hear them, I could feel the ghosts nearby, calm; in their element.
I lifted my hands to my face, their movement jerky, as if random frames had been snipped from the film by time’s board of censors.
I felt for the gaping hole that the bullet would have made as it exited the back of my skull but found my head intact.
My clothing was unfamiliar, ragged and dirty in contrast to the pristine white vacuum in which I found myself. My breathing was erratic and shallow, as if the air too had been cut up into small fragments of irregular consistency and my lungs were having trouble coping.
And yet this place was familiar, vivid as an erotic dream, and frightening as the truth behind a politician’s lies. In the city that remained somewhere in my mind a pigeon pecked at a discarded leg of fried chicken as the driverless cars passed within inches, powered by anger and solitude, and the black oil from the plundered continents.
And in the ubiquitous shopping malls the system sucked the spirit of individuality from the mindless throngs.
Thought control. Nature abhors a vacuum. The white void gaped and the blood thumped in my wrists, tight as a drum skin. The white void swallowed my breath’s echo; all sound as dull as plastic cutlery.
The thin black hands on the large circular clock stole yet another minute.

1 comment:

littlebitofsonshine said...

Ding Dong goes the bell but whos to hear the children well in there beds all safe and sound till usa plains abound. Now thay lay in pieces like a clock just left to rot.ding ding goes the bell do we hear the call to hell????