In the days of neither
memory nor prophecy,
when a City spanned
the history of
men and women,
there existed a concept
and they used to dance,
before the poltergeists rose up
against their masters and
defiled their graves.
I was a ghost then,
alone in the world of housed and
harbored fugitives.
I was invisible, then.
Intoxicated with the power
found in writing memoirs,
the policrats lived in
seclusion, communicating
in double-talk, on the backs
of books and boxes of kitchen
matches.
I was sick, then, and
could no longer sleep with
the lights off, but
their invisible heat
brought on fits of fever
and hallucination.
This was before human machines,
but after the distrusting public
sought retribution from
the pigs they had slaughtered.
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the
My days followed suit.
repetition was habitual,
and coffee was my drug.
It seemed easier then,
when the wind or
inclement weather,
the strays, the homeless,
the sheep, the shepherd,
when they were against
me.
This was a time of asphalt
and concrete towers;
when the last trees
were housed by museums.
This was the time of Reality.
Though it seemed that
everyone begged
the question,
they marched on
orders received
orders followed…
until the headaches, the nose bleeds,
and the fevers began,
hot
throbbing pulse
bllluuurr-vision
intensity.
sight was granted
by
Pain.
I followed…
Escape. digging the
tunnel out with my hands
the dirt beneath my nails
and a man standing over me
armed, razor-wire grin,
mirrored aviators,
"Not today, boy."
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the lonely pile
curled
alone on the floor
tears and sweat and bleeding
waking up there
My days followed suit.
repetition was habitual,
and coffee was my drug.
They warn us about sleep, especially
in the Amrika City Truth Department.
so I strain, I fight,
I sleepwalk.
Dreams are terrifying.
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
coffee break
my shaky hands
fingertips stained, nicotine
breathe in…
cough out
an angry lung
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
evening meals: dinner
micro-wave
glowing box dinners
I sit in front of that box.
my shadow, I'm sure,
along with my lay-z-boy;
imprinted memories on the back wall,
like a Hiroshima silhouette,
a fitting chalk outline
fuzz and monotone:
time for bed.
Dreams are terrifying.
They told us so, and
the power of a lie
lies with its believability.
dreams are figments
two pills, nightly
medicated sleep…
until the ulcer
indigestion
weight-loss
anemia
impurities were purged
by blood and bile
and
pain
I listened, I followed, I took the pills…
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the sleeping zombie
heavy eye droop
potions and voodoo by night
potions and voodoo by day
secrecy, but
they know
they bewitched me.
My days followed suit.
repetition was habitual,
and coffee was my drug.
They warn us about sleep,
especially in the Truth
department.
so I strain,
I fight,
I sleepwalk.
Dreams terrify me.
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
coffee break
my shaky hands
finger tips stained, nicotine
breathe in
cough out
an angry lung
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
evening meals: dinner
micro-wave
glowing box dinners
I sit in front of that box.
fuzz and monotone
pitch…
the sun has long set
oh god, it's night
again
two pills
glass of milk of magnesia—
I refuse
a clear field,
long and picturesque
deep emerald grass
shades far greener than any other
a girl…
running
towards me?
no, the dogs are chasing
gaining on her
oh god, they're right there
she darts by
girl dog
dog
dog
dog dog dogdog dog
dog dogdog dog
dogdogdog dog dog
dog dogdog dog
dog
oh god, they've ____
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the fictional writer,
writing daily encyclopedias
rewriting history to suit today
"it's the Truth,"
they say
but I know better
but I know obedience.
My days followed suit.
repetition was habitual,
and coffee was my drug.
They warn us about dreams,
especially in the Truth
department.
So I strain,
I fight,
I sleepwalk.
Sleeping terrifies me.
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
coffee break
my shaky hands
finger tips stained, nicotine
breathe in…
breathe fire…
men with no names,
faces like evil itself
chasing
biting fighting
tricking
shaking me
confusion?
faces over me
coworkers—
forced smile,
cigarette
breathe out smoke
back to work
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
evening meals: dinner
micro-wave
glow box dinners
I sit in front of that box.
fuzz and monoto—
LIGHT
all lights,
safety
a book
The Proper Technique of Presentation:
Forms x-127.78, .86, .43, and .07
Chapter 1: Cover Sheets
hours…
sunlight?
dawn is safety
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the paranoid.
My days followed suit.
repetition was habitual,
and coffee was my drug.
They warn us about sleeping,
especially in the Truth
department.
so I strain,
I fight,
I the somnambulist.
Thoughts of the dream terrify me.
Cubicle, faceless screen
I type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep…
coffee break
black
with nothing in it, just coffee,
black…
surrounding me, swirling
the shadows creep up
up the walls
up my spine
they live
smiling, like children in
grim fairy tales
they're coming for me.
you know, they lie
blink—
confusion?
cigarette
Cubicle, faceless screen
I stare blankly at it,
it stares blankly back at me
type papers
Form x-127.78, with blank cover
sheets
like the white cloth of death
the one they drape over cadavers,
you know, the John's and Jane's
all with the same last name
Duplicate
Triplicate
clonecloneclonecloneclonecloneclone
yellow copy, keep…
evening meals: dinner
microwavable
Glowbox™ dinners
I sit in front of that box.
fuzz and monotone blasting
LIGHT
all lights,
safety?
suffocating
solitude like hell
alone,
imprisoned?
what is my crime?
as the prosecutor peers over me
contempt in his eyes
beady little red eyes
in sharp contrast with his grotesque
face—pale pink
fat
with thin legs, like an anorexic ballerina
why are they after me?
my crimes are my own…
they're coming after me?
I have to get out!
they'll cook me alive in here
HELP HELP!
HELP ME!!!
the air's too thin to speak
my lungs burn…
I should quit smoking,
but it calms my nerves
but that's not important, now…
I have to get help
I have to get out.
I need air
the balcony
the air
the height—
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the naked body
shivering
unconscious
thankfully
My days followed suit.
habit was too repetitive,
and coffee was my drug.
though I'm teetering on
the morality of sedatives…
They warn us about drugs,
especially in the Truth?
department.
so I strain,
I fight,
I sleepwalk.
Thoughts of last night terrify me
too unreal
too unimagined…
they warn us about dreaming
have i been dreaming?
Cubicle, faceless screen
I stare blankly at it,
but
type papers
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet
all the same
Duplicate
Triplicate
yellow copy, keep
coffee break
shaky hands…
stench of burning
like my lungs
smoldering
a half-smoked cigarette,
staring at it—
poison?
I breathe in deeply
exhale smoke
and smirk
how to get out of here…
i have to leave, of course,
I'm sick.
Cubicle, faceless screen
I stare blankly at it,
but
type nothing
I collapse
exhaustion, they say; but I know
that they know that I've been dreaming
have I dreamt?
do I have dreams?
too abstract
fill out Work Medical Leave Form k-326
Duplicate
triplicate
yellow copy, keep
but, maybe, I won't…
I've never seen the city during work hours.
buildings—concrete,
no windows…
the Truth Department strongly
suggested to
the Builders' Guild
"windows promote idleness"
like gears?
no, more precise
scurrying, heads down,
green lights, cross walks
no traffic delays
perfection
I've overheard from the streetwalkers,
those invisible drunkards, they claim
that there were times:
chaos, jams, congestion
but not now—perfection
beautiful, inorganic and forced
digital perfection.
he sees me,
shiny uniform
badge, gun… always a gun
sunglasses?
not mirrored, thank god,
I can see his eyes…
"You are not in your proper place.
Where are your leave papers?"
-panic-
why was I so brash?
what was I thinking?
I've heard what they do with
the lazy
search the brief-case, eyes down
don't let him see them
FEAR
please, let it be here
yellow and crinkled…relief
"Go back to your quarters and sleep."
i'm safe
safe?
am I safe?
is it safe?
the door shut behind me
did it lock?
ah, television…
you'll keep me occupied, yes?
Power… static
click… static
click clickclick
click clickclickclickclick click
click click click click…..stati—
power.
to sleep, perchance to be terrorized?
hmmmm…
perhaps, I'll risk
and go for a walk.
empty.
patrols go by,
I don't think they notice me,
I don't think that they're looking for me.
paranoid, still,
crossing streets leaves me open
vulnerable
a zebra asking for a death-grip
and barrel-roll
run?
we don't run, here…
I haven't run since
before this time
since there were no
since I was—
what was I before now?
I must have been
not what I am, now?
hunger.
strange how we take things for granted
I eat at the Truth Department
I eat out of my freezer
food?
I buy my food,
eat my food
digest my food
shit my food…
what makes my food?
I heard there was a time
evening meals: dinner
micro-wave
glowing box dinners
I sit in front of that box.
I leave it off.
exhausted to pacification
beyond self torment and fear
I think I'll sleep, tonight.
sounds…
I've never heard,
but
voices?
I've been here before
sterile white walls
no windows: overcome laziness…
who are these people?
uniforms?
screaming!
panic
why?
LEAVE ME ALONE!
me?
me…
I the ghost
I the figment
I the half-hearted lie
I the history-less.
history…
they tell me who I am
what I was before the present
but I have no…
no…
no…
past.
My day followed suit.
habit was too repetitive,
and had holes and
gaps lead to questions.
they warn us about questions…
especially at the truth department
but they lie, anyway, don't they?
Cubicle, faceless screen
I stare blankly at it,
but…
type papers?
what if they weren't
Form x-127.78, with cover sheet?
I've seen what words can do
what if i were to…
no—
not now, not here
not when they can see me…
what if i were to leave?
I need a smoke break…
shaky hands…
push more dirt out of my way
a little more…painstaking care
fresh air
sweet taste
inhale
the search light's coming
pause
slowly
slowly
slowly
in the open
pounding
pulse is too loud, they'll hear me
the guns—
creep…
pause
the gunners have to see me,
why are they toying with me?
am I in their sights?
I have to continue
shhhh…not now, heart…
pause
move
creep
duck down
pause
this tempo is excruciating
an opening?
don't think, it takes too long
make a break for it
RUN!
I the ghost
I the figment
I the pounding heart
I the fugitive
out
free, yet not
fear, yet none
fresh air…
My day did not follow suit.
habit was broken,
what do i do, now?
a fugitive
I've never heard of a fugitive
surviving
they hide,
become invisible
then, one night, in a drunken state,
they are overcome by nostalgia
and make a break back
for the city gates
and then machine gun fire
breaks their bodies…
this, I haven't heard,
I've read
then filled out form x-127.78,
with cover sheet:
"Terrorist Prevented From
Entering City Gates"
or, for those that remain:
"Streets Protected From
Vermin by Police Heroism"
lies
I know what they'll write about me…
"Heretic Fugitive
Brought to Justice"
Safety?
would that ever be possible, again?
the door locked, but
this is their room
their micro-wave
their television
their frozen dinners
their balcony
the balcony?
perhaps I should turn the lights off,
but the dark allows for secrecy,
their secrecy
I will not hide…
but i am afraid.
awake,
time for work…
my days follow
typing paper, forms…
but unintelligible
and where are the others?
coffee…
and a
why won't my lighter light?
finally…
inhale
confusion, where are they?
sounds… vibrations…
screaming?
no, not…
but the deafening sound of masses.
they're burning!
I am standing right next to him
shiny uniform,
badge, gun…
always guns…
is he blind?
why won't you help?
he's angry?
they're becoming him
thousands…
they burn, but they are not
consumed…
a mass
almost faceless
all with his face…
and mirrored aviators
i feel their eyes,
piercing…
chasing like
a growing wave
a tidal wave
a tsunami
effortless
all with guns and badges
and they're all after me
my legs!
why can't I move?
they're gaining on me
surrounding
choking
suffocating
becoming them…
i can't fight it
same mentality
order
restraint
control
I DON'T WANT THIS
STOP
blink—
confusion?
I the ghost
I the figment
I the pounding heart
I the fugitive
out
freedom and
fear and
fresh air…
Before this time,
a forest shaded the land and
streets were restricted to solid ground.
It was a time of warfare,
prolonged warfare.
This was before the Hero, the
boy, the lion, the camel, the golden-scaled
dragon slayer, before he stood up.
The Department of Yesterday says that
there never was a god, but this is not so.
And the Truth Department has made it
clear that the word is profane,
"One should never take it upon one's self
to rescue the World."
But it was a time of war…
And so the Hero drove into the heart of
the Forest and fought and killed God.
Returning, the Hero was stoned to death,
but only after the masses
took it upon themselves to march clear
the minefields,
to prove the point.
This was how we were rescued.
This is how we rescued order,
by force and sacrifice.
But the proof and bones and
sacrificially fertile fields
are now covered in lines and boxes
and planes of concrete,
brought into Order.
People are not allowed within
a kilometer of the City walls,
without authorization, or a gun.
But there is traffic that passes
through the gates, in and out,
between the urban centers.
Great automated machines pass through,
but most people live and die in the City,
never seeing the walls.
No civilian has seen Sirkamrika
and returned,
so the Truth Department reports.
I must escape. But to leave these walls,
I must die.
If I am just a number
and failure in the system
is due to death only,
I am dead now.
I will pass, unnoticed and invisible…
written off as an insignificant
speck on a gear
in an otherwise flawless clock.
Timing is everything.
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