Taking It on the Lam by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Page 20

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. 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.

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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 put the chill on my disgust and seized the word in my hand. Remains only you, the calculator’s time, the calculator’s logic, the motives we don't respect or comprehend don’t work. Melancholy resolution took the wounded static. Armored vans took the road by the sea. From the cord, it

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has been licensed to those with the green. The details we pretend to understand, will be disproved, down at the edge.”

“Quick right here, Bitty, and stay straight through the little circle.”

“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 big heap record.

Taking It on the Lam