a finger of the sea.
Or no. A thumb. Splay from the hand insignia of obstinacy said the fortune teller. Plucking at it clucking when it springs back to its prehensile jut. Mother of tempests. Wilding annihilating gray. Where the fishermen stand with their long nodding rods and pull in fish or just wait. Patient. Hip deep in the gnash of the surf.
You will not give in. And you will pay.
So the private linked to the public in a spasm at once absolutely detached and resolutely intimate the eyes gaze like fish in a bowl and the groin thrashes. In loss. Feeding the starved eyes. The absolute impotence of absolute awareness the chains of light that seal you to your chair. As the riptide of your family sucks the sand around you. Threatening the rock where you sit caught between the kaleidoscope of the sun and the corruscations of the sea. Eyes of chaos and chaos. A starfish flicking a prickled arm in a spit cup of foam. In the livingroom. Between the stairs and the antique glass. And the bickering on the upper floors. A silence that throbs constantly like an omen. The whisper of moving sheets.
There was a plan for order in all this so many aims goals limited purposes over-riding interests etc. Magnanimous or miserly gestures toward organization generally willful and sanctimonious military in style coercive in nature good-hearted loving and tough. Brutal goodness. The point will be to shove him into being. Whether he wants to go or not. It is the right thing to do. At the right time in the right way. There being no other. Only one. Only once. Or you will destroy not yourself alone but all of us with you.
Everywhere he looks there is a hammer raised above a nail.
The perspective is closed and global. A face pressed against a screen. Background then as now in process of elimination.
There is no telling where you are. You are everywhere you are nowhere. Always. Never. Now.
As the flames began gathering in the city.
It will not do not to admit they repelled and fascinated you their shadowy oily skin not black at all but many shades of brown the odors of their bodies their harsh dry hair their big-mouthed laughter their anger their unrelenting poverty. They disgusted frightened mocked you challenged the doctrine of kindness in you. Of truth and kindness gazing with suspicion at each other within you. Dared you to look them in the face. Beyond the sentimentalism of the victim. After the last blackmail has been paid. Their misery everywhere like an oil that slicked the shafts. The hopelessness and filth of the neighborhoods where they lived. That went to the horizon on moorlands of homes in ruins strafed from the skies interrupted demolition. The constant fear walking their streets fear of them the fear from them. The blank tired druggy look bloodshot gaping scattering shriek murderous following stare. Angry laughter from knots of kids resentful laugh vicious little sharp laugh of lying victory scornful flamboyant theatrical laugh laugh to show one is not crying not beaten or crushed crushed beaten weeping laugh. The tone gave the city the richly gray sheen of misery frustration and shame. It infiltrated the curtains soured the clothes hanging in the closet. Sour bitter filth like the stench from rotting wharves.
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