1. How many deaths do we carry within us, even now? What mercy of blindness have we been given? What dim shape below the ice? What chemical cloud in the river? What slumbering lump of cancerous growth? What urge for the bottle, or the needle or the pills crushed on the dinnerplate? What secret name does our angel know? Warnie, with his gun and killer's hands heads towards a future he imagines is free imagines himself outside of jailhouse walls his neck free of the rope but He and Nolda are trapped in the moment fish in the ice of time dead and speaking their smiles frozen light silver on paper. Their voices wax cylinders scratched film waiting for a spark to send them creaking to motion again, these marionettes Pontius and Judas smiling and smiling cheery as wax fruit. Continue reading
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