The cruel authority of the Romans has receded, but their hungry sacrilege remains an indelible slate. More a somnolent outgrowth, it defined the parameters of this desperate prosperity- just watch the blind brilliance, just watch the skyscraper shadowing the hobo. So it should not surprise that old, forgotten men play bingo at the terminal graft of fear and avarice. From just beyond this window the giddy sun mingles with the generous dapple of castled hedges. Where the memory has been rejected, burnt off for survivalist heat. Where the cycle of the butterfly fails to signify. Where two small children, in GAP ensemble, caper in a circle of squeals- the last grapes before firepowered acculturation, just beyond the edges and echoes of accidental catastrophe and participatory marvels.
* * * * * *
Dust sifts from the cracked ceiling to the intervals of bombing. A little wan light trickles in from one dirty window, but angular shadows dominate the room. Out in the rubbly street a man begins to hoarsely scream in Arabic. Then the familiar, muted chatter of many bullets. There is no more screaming. An interval of tense, waiting silence looms. Then the bombing intensifies. Its crashes blink rhythmically in the street, lightening the room a tint. As the furniture rattles the child begins to cry. Her father presses against her, unsure what to say, squeezing instinctively.
* * * * * *
Lucifer exposes his carnie-yellow molars, but how could they look beyond the puffy measures between his fingers. Folly thy name is productivity. The map is far too big and this basement far too small for a good party, step off. Like a warning flag the sun arcs futilely. Again and again. That is the way the blue addict gets by. That is the way normal completes its subtle marauding. So tell me again, your Majesty, with the last few grains of this insectile empire, how it is that the fire can exceed its diamond.