GLACE À LA GLACE
GLACE À LA GLACE
the bureau arrive immediately. They draw their pistols, firing with fury at the event of standing face to their last days. Their aim is pointed at the more menacing of deersʹ heads. Antlers are well known to inspire black horror in these fellows of the bureau. When they are all certain that the heads are no longer going to move, roll, or bite, they are resolved to clean up at once, to dispose of the pieces in some secure void... of course, some obscure void. I suggested the ocean. They agreed that this was the best solution, evident that we await low tide. The little guy, smaller than all the rest yet by far the most immaculately dressed, gave a sob from the far side of the In the Corridor
corridor. With that is shattered all the calm result of the
slaughter. With the cries of the small man come visions
I stand here at the end of the corridor. I play a critical
of the fog. One cannot simply pose a lid on the dreams.
part here today they tell me…
One can only search the most sufficient means of retreat.
They spread all the pieces across the floor. Two piles are
The blister in the ceiling just above me swells to a massive boil. The syrup substance traces a red stain the size and shape of a pregnant cow. Droplets fall from the puncture in the center. The rhythm increases steadily to the size of the puddle growing before my feet. My boss tells me to hold faith in his word, that the latex paint layer can hold the weight of three pregnant cows. I wipe the sweat from my brow, suspense boiling in my belly. The dozen‐something animals beaten by our truck earlier today come bursting out, spilling forth as from a failed levee at critical capacity. The idiots from
created one against each wall of the passage. We find ourselves standing in the center of a pool of blood. The group stands mute in unison staring down at the glistening abyss of memory, restless again in their desire to forget. With the tips of their boots they commence a ritual of tracing channels in the puddle. Iʹve seen one before. When theyʹve finished there will rest an intricate network of mazes in the floor. Without saying a word I understand that this is a sort of map, a plan of escape from the torturous cries of the little guy. Before theyʹve nearly finished their project I feel myself grown too 19
GLACE À LA GLACE
weary to continue standing. So cold in the space to freeze any exposed liquids, I feel myself suddenly vulnerable. My arms numb and drop under the weight of all the frozen scarlet spatter spread glittering all over. Yet more weary now I stare captivated at the wintry fields sprouting endless across the soil of my skin. I can attempt to remove the droplets while at the same time removing the images growing there within. Over the apple orchards growing thickest on my forearms I pour the contents of a bottle I keep hidden in the pocket closest to my heart. I tried.................... I failed.
Only succeeded in perpetuating further the agricultural madness come to swallow me whole. I faint stone cold, cheek soaked in a puddle of wishes and fears.
I wrote the day after returning to New Orleans after my escapade in France. I was exhausted and beaten raw by the events. Perhaps it shines...