Replete with Idle Tongues
The thing is, we didn’t care. Here everything cried as we cried. Here everything
lived in fear of its creator. The lost soul was our bride, our groom.
Yes, I had become sufficiently delusional to supplant reality with visionary
wonder. Like a deaf man blinded by music, I was bravely fighting for the right error. I
mean we were. I mean we felt something stir. Like a nervous twitch. And we went
looking for us to happen again.
Went looking for another. Fucked into reverie, that’s what we wanted to be. So
you’ll know I’m not like all the others, we thought. We wanted our needle-eyed mongrel
of a curse limping out of bed with religious purpose. Our very own new witness keeping
us righteous as we suffered our superiority.
“We must overcome our sins,” says the ministration, replacing the comfort of
assimilating a language without edges. The new lie as great as heaven.
We should be punished for this, yes, we should be put in charge.
So we did this thing. We did it together. We did it where the roads had been aging.
Elders in the church of the rusted chassis. We took it seriously. We thought it wouldn’t
change anything, but as soon as it got going, we felt alive again.
We left behind the gift of ignorance.
The punishment had come before the crime.
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.