Lege et Lacrima

Lege et Lacrima

I pulled a wire from my ear, not knowing what to make of it. Was it a communication device, powerful yet unobtrusive, or did it get lodged somehow when the false ceiling collapsed?. After so many years in the roots of trees, the cicadas dug out, made a terrible racket of complaint and desire. The Dow was down, indicators shaky, the bloodworms dug deep in sandy burrows, the game of whist was becoming popular in Stoop Culture. And it wasn’t just me. Friends and strangers began pulling wires from their ears.. Fat Frank , who fronts for Tommy T, found wires fine as hair sprouting from his ears, which he nipped with tiny scissors and saved wrapped in tissues. The indicators were sketchy. Sign on the trail was not to be trusted – the spoor was crumbly, the fungus brittle. Stoop Culture flourished, slapping whist like a tiger’s tail and signifying on snoops with intricate verbal slings.The wires were of the most part red, yellow and green; I snipped one of an ocean hue, an aqua blue-green straggler, one I might have hoped would connect to a real and vibrant dream, but which dangled uselessly like an unattended penis. I replaced the false ceiling with a sturdier grade of panels. I taped and sprayed. Catfish grew heavy and sluggish for lack of want, crows became intrusive and insistent. I let one wire grow, a red one, the rest I snipped off. I had new cutters, sharp and clean, as did everyone.The red one though I thought held promise. It fell to three inches below my lobe, and it whispered of misty roads less traveled, of savvy Silk Road merchants, of jews and gypsies and jesters. The wires were an enigma, a wonderment, and, we all somehow knew, a great gift and blessing.Their meaning and purpose would become apparent in the near future, if only we could remain focused on the wires, the wires themselves, and not on their implications. Indicators remained obscured, as many consulted ancient Sumerian texts for clues, and others in Druidic ritual. Some let their wires grow, like rasta dreadlocks, reasoning that massed connectors would hasten the impending singularity, while some few snipped their wires twice a day, fearful, lonely and abject. The Dow was up and down, and markets looked to the thriving Stoop Culture. The cicadas died off in one last burst of sexual cacophony, the bloodworms burrowed deeper, the catfish grew larger and lazed like bottom-dwelling sultans, and the crows became bold and fearless.

Fat Frank, fronting for Tommy T, staked out a lucrative territory in a Stoop Culture enclave, where signs of a solid connection were being seen, The whist games were becoming supernal, people were beginning to speak exclusively in verse, and everywhere the wires were beginning to crackle…and beginning to writhe.

to be continued…


Posted on January 28, 2012, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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