Aleph Zebra

It becomes my desire to know whether it is actually exploding or just my imagination, and yet, I hope that somehow you will all find a way to embed your faces in my heart. I want the flutter of your eyelids in my blood, your movements to become my silent hours.

The rain grows more tiny with each minute as we find that we can really buy nothing, only turn stones in our heads and draw off a little of the steam from the place where the electricity is immune to night, where vibration reigns upon a photographic throne.

The couriers ban their sighs in obedient numbers, wombs like gradiated vaults spitting out systems that copulate in the waves of motion. The vibrations flow like a lightning tide, sweep the blood in code and yet the infant has not yet coughed up his heart. In his heat, or her seemingly tiny red tides, a promise is busy concealing itself against a broken date that may very well be this word. Where is the swelling? The expulsive gravity that will negotiate the politics of this grey coercion?

The man cannot remain chaired for long. He is sweaty, standing in simultaneous pools of history that are busy fortifying circuits. He looks to the near stranger, but has connected his heart to the ceiling with a bone he badly needed, or so it appeared. The dog waits in the kitchen, making up balls to chase while the master tries to speak, lights the cigarette of his memory, fails again to reach the phone not realizing that he locked his blood in an electric box with no transmitter. He receives. Dog barking at shadows of unreal balls duplicating themselves in a frenzy now. Nowhere to stand, every surface has become round, somehow. An enormous newspaper fades slowly into view, blotting out the kitchen light. The dog cowers, whining and trying to scurry out of the way, but his eyes are replaced by photos of a rusty swingset and he can no longer see. The master sings to him, but the postcard is strangely burned upon arrival. A handprint on a doorknob set into a solid brick wall.