Some love attributing sacredness -- places beyond place, times beyond time, the infinite & the infinitesimal. But anything elevated to the sacred becomes a thing for which people will kill or die. Often, people don't make this reckoning until the dying 's done: -death for a sign -death for a symbol -death for a chunk of dead earth -death for a vaguely evaluated idea The agents of sanctification will kill us all.
Only too eager to have the machine installed in their brains, they did what they could, and, instead, installed their brains into the machine. Data sparkled in the mind void, bouncing about and careening into other bytes and clusters. But the crash cascades always came, a cannibalistic consumption of fact, transmogrifying it into a shabby soup of quasi-reality. Brain-pans paining, densely packed with alternate realities that could never be rectified. By the time they realized the virtue of going out to play, they were no longer sure what "outside" meant -- Outside of what? Where's the exit? Where is there something else? -something simple? How's one get off this speeding bus? It became the pain that ruled that last lost generation.
His eyes take in the dancing flame until his mind is flame. He anticipates its flutter, its flareups, just the same. There's nothing in his mind or eye that is not set ablaze. He knows not whether it's been like this for hours, weeks, or days. Others think it will devour him, leaving a pile of ash, taking him from this world at once, in one big, blinding flash.
A craftsman from old Ulan Bator made Genghis Khan statues by the score. "Call me a fierce lauder, but he's the best marauder. We haven't marauded well since days of yore."
at the muddy shore, reconstructing the scene by reading tracks
sunlight shines low, half-hatching the forest floor with autumn shadows; i walk amid columns, listening for absent birds
after midnight the city transmogrifies; birthed anew at five
I've thought about the ideal horn. Should it be straight or curved? Or by a spectacular rack would one be better served? Maybe one would be better off being a unicorn. With just way too many options, I confess I am torn. A huge rack would most certainly wreak hell upon the spine, but a unicorn must get foes to form a single line. I once saw a wandering oryx; its horns were a stumper. They seemed optimized to stabbing off course para-jumpers.
An old woman expat in Doha looked over the wall and said, "Aha! "It's back! The spacecraft." "Woman, don't be daft, "It's been here 'fore we came from Utah!"
