No One Intends to Shoot Us

10/10/14

Don’t whisper to the minister. Don’t even douse the miscreant candle.
Among the living and the dead, children passing from one cave to another.
The guard cracks his knuckles and aims his gaze at the future. He’s keeping track
of everything that will not happen again.
He’s offering his trousers to the general and collecting a brace of eel, trembling and
trembling without moving a muscle.

Try handing out some conversions at the tent door. Don’t bother making a flap.
We enter by the abandoned.
Which makes it too perfect here. The only thing broken is the word.

Precipitate particulate. Offer only the substitute spelled stunningly. After dictionary
time there were no more acceptable variations.
A man drops to his knees, dies quickly into the bullet. His body falls back flat and
the knees fall to the man.
Nothing left of him now but the juice.

Surplus migrations stacked in the barn.
They came from far away and they stayed.
It’s not what you think it is but what you think (the way you can consider sniffing a
woman’s rich armpit to distribute her legs advantageously). [Since he did not enjoy
considering how she felt, he assumed doing so was virtuous. If he had succeeded in
considering it, he would have drawn the wrong conclusions.]
Judge not the remainder. We were chosen.

The minister had indeed spent a lifetime crossing and re-crossing his own mind,
often arriving at unexplored locations with little more than an intellectual putty knife and
a desire to fix something before it ruptures. (Some bacteria were discussing the moment
life begins to separate into species and how long it should be left to age before it becomes
ripe and how much should be left to propagate the supply and this was all going on while
some other bacteria were plotting a takeover and so many were involved that it was hard
to imagine it could be kept secret but it was and then it wasn’t anymore and the
difference between living off the host and destroying the host began to seem irrelevant
since it had become known and there was nothing unexpected to stop it). [Mirror: his
thoughts do not reflect upon me though mine reflect upon him.]

Something waiting like evidence to be acknowledged (when the kid developed
some strange ideas about the number of appendages he was allowed). It’s not the
children acting like adults as the bilge pump saves them, but the adults acting like
children. Salvation has darkened the waters and it makes what light there is shining
through seem a bit brighter. (It’s a beautiful moment, but it lives alone.) [She tries me and she tries me and at this rate it won’t be long before never arrives.]

If I buy him a toy I might not be his toy of choice, so I don’t buy him a toy.

The way we embroider the embroidery.

Not a sunset but a painting of a sunset. Not a painting.
The guard could be loaded. His gaping chest wound cannot diminish his prior
accomplishments.
Not a sunset.



Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.