Burst by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 10
In seeming mid-sentence, Bitty’s voice cleared the gas pedal induced engine sounds. In a monotone suggestive of tolerant tedium he said; “Sedentary mice flammed the focal entry flap to the place the twelve partitioned proditious enormity resided. In nostalgic desperation, the bio of Metal Man peeped its square face toward the six. Not quite, but a start.
No new land provides no new respite for the children of the elk. Nor the children of the corn. Nor the children of the spook. Nor the children. It is complete; save the few. They have taken their silence away. Away at last, the folden arms are left, not out of their unchosen choice, but out of innafs long ago planted in the time of the selective giants.
They have painted demonic pictures on the fertile green and have made them abundant in their hiding places. This offering in my hands, my pockets, and my nutbean-mound is not the first; yet it is the last gift from the many-named one. The delta it invokes and at the same time dishonors is a coolybrish negroid meeting of the true Tribes. In the least of winds, the waves come in in bold white caps which kiss the shore, then disappear.
How much more will be seen in the great wind to come?”
Rikki’s voice seemed reticent and simultaneously insistent when she quickly said; “You Indians still do a lot of acid? No
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offense intended, but it doesn’t sound like it has been cut with speed.”
“Speed. ....... Speed? ....... Einstein for you. ......
Relativity? ......... Fine, insofar as it goes. Relative to what?”
“A constant. A stillness. Something which doesn’t evolve.
Something which remains the same.”
“Where are such things?”
“In the mans’ breechcloth.”
“For you in the moment of your jingle dress.”
“Metaphor intended.”
“Faith leaped.”
“Truth.”
“Biased.”
“Any other kind available for sale?”
“Conveniently answers its own question.”
“Which was?”
Mal’s unintelligible voice seemed to momentarily attain decibels which slightly exceeded the engine hum, and he seemed to say; “Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight? Can we please go back to the part about my breechcloth? Not to be rude, but the coin of the realm here seems Pynchon-popularly-prescribed-in-polytechnic-plagiarism-preferred, more or less. No?”
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After a bit of slurred indecipherables, Bitty was again caught midstream. With a tone indicative of resilience or a tone indicative of a practical acquiescence, he said; “Blue is a color which will always was and which always will be. Much like yellow, it is difficult to pinpoint, and therefore even more difficult to draw inferences from. Dangerous. Few are skilled in the proper use of a prism. In the days of Mesa Coyote and his lost tribe, it was the rule that pathos equalled jest.
Brisfallus, brisfallus, you see. It was made two. Look!
It’s obvious. To crave one is to crave death. To have reasoning for one is to crave death. To be deluded by the business of preachership is to crave the flood. To be communal sectares the land. Me and my family can now make the debt gone. Naashgali Dine’e and his Mescal warriors now mistakenly fear us. They know their power comes only from the green. The green comes from the earth, and try as they will, they cannot stop it. They can only blind the already lame.
It was forseen by Mor’ in’ e, in the tradition of her Touch Many Hands tribe that all would reverse. South would become North, just as it was before the first shift at the end of the first age. It is but a matter of a match igniting the ready and dry wood. Until that day we are condemned to the green defiled by the Cyclops.
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Approach the pure and dense period of alteration. The elders relate their faulty sympathy, yet they are elders. A weathered Dine skin-walker could fix the circle again. Seasons are now backward, yet we still fear a real break. Dine could be mad, and return your nafs to the solid spirit grace, with music from afar. We have tasted the fruit of man and made infinite clones, losing all but Rolex shams, valuing sums to nowhere. The hands meet on top and a moondrop surges. It can elevate us like an Orphic lyre, taking away the plain plane. My dear friends and protectors, ultimately you choose the passageway. End, corner not right; the dammed falls of the river. Broke through just before the false revolutions of the straw, hands extended to the shade of the blue. Circulated around a brief infatuation for the hillside howlers, un-clothed in mornings in which light was denied. Finally relaxing into the time we used to worry, yet sending each of the variations into the damp shadows of ancient rhyme we release the burden and learn the master's name.
Downstairs at the wind-up, close to the landing, a river.
Seasons uncaringly bypass. Up. Down. It's over. You’re un-abridged.
The Cyclops Sun speared, my shell convinced, in the eclipse of the older moon, deceivingly replaced by the younger reached through harmless fancy. Manna from above compounds. I killed my disgust and seized the word in my hand. Remains only you, the
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calculator’s time, the calculator’s logic, the motives we don't respect or comprehend. Melancholy resolution took the wounded static. Armored vans took the road by the sea. From the cord, it has been licensed to those with the green. The details we pretend to understand, will be disproved, down at the edge.
Cause specific takes away the frightened recall. The journey smiles as if otherwise; after it has once more stopped before going all the way; as if it stupidly thought that it diverged from any reality that you've ever seen and known.
Deducing glitches only to betray their mention. Leaving paths that end halfway into the annulled. As we cross from north to south, we hear the complete heap record. Beified at the edge.
Flavors will depart. You turn up. You turn down.
The white shawl sadly looks; ashamed for the crucifixion of her sphere. Eight billion sheep just placate. Two one cry, too late. Specks of honesty cannot reach. She’d flooshey say it was wonder of her own. Billions are daily deluded. Only compound interest could be placed on the children. I get up, I get down.
To what am I slave? No, he sees the femlens twins. His eyes blinded, he feels his way. In what day does he come of age? I get up. I get down.
Aladdin’s rusted compass blade split the seasons. Water poured. Spaces between our houses were boned. Music wed the colors to the visions. The red sky smashed the two. Space
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focussed form. Chirruping wind cast its spell of forgotten communal gathering upstairs. Open to space; who wheeled and directed, exposing each side? Piercing orbs smirked gossip, beholding itself only. Mounted we see peace in the vale and the ghostly phases of the past, through roads manifesting complete sun. When whole, you get down.”
There was a semblance of a lull interrupted by a short click. Mal filled the void when he said; “I, temporarily feeling out of danger, and having listened to some of the substantial monologue say; ‘Like, hey man; I been there. No lie.’”
Rikki said; “I want more.”
Bitty was silent.
Back at my house, Rikki said; “This one gets sarcastic and that one loses interest.”
Mal said; “Bitty lost any track of us he might have had. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cash. He proceeded to count it like he did when we first met.”
For once I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
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