elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Saturday, October 12, 2002
Liquid sky. What were the voices saying that day? Such a strange day, too. The wind rising like that, so suddenly. Heaven over rain, brooding choirs speaking in tongues.
Now I remember. Go out. Go out, they said. Never come back.
Slippage. The needle skitters across the disk. Sorry folks, a little technical difficulty. Move along now. Nothing serious. Number three, report. Direct drive disk drive star drive. Check. The sound of engines coming up behind the universe. Background radiation. Check. Golden hashish sunshine. Check. Looking good here, Houston.
Six billion people wired to the eyes. Cultural disruption so profound it has no precedent. High technologies enlisted into the service of high art. Radio telescopes turned into transmitters, painting the horses of Altamira on the moon.
Satellite of love... satellite of love...
The sound of one hand poised above the keyboard. Wroth and sephiroth more semaphore. He watched as she put the cigarette to her lips, drew in, traced the sysiphean calculus of her neck as she rolled her head back, closed her eyes, exhaled. When it begins to move, he wondered, who maps its rhythm? Atalanta Fugiens, I have been here with you always before. Never done, riverrun. Who pays attention to the clicks and pauses between the letters as the words run out? If only it were possible to listen and play too. She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. "Indoeuropean saxophone," he said. "If only it were not subjunctive."
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