I walk for miles in darkness, but down
familiar roads, disappearing often
not into space, but curious silence.
There are no red letter dates, nor any peculiar
atrocities there—just many, many
coincidences, reams of exemplary scenes
from one epic master-movie, created
a long time ago by those huge faceless proto-
human shades—and then cut-copy-pasted
over generations and reduced, so ruthless and hard
as to to fit on a white three-by-five index card
which I carry creased neatly inside an otherwise
empty wallet. Presently, I'll unfold it and
reanimate the words one-by-one, each as
perfect as your growing discontent is. I'll watch
as you hear them gradually disappearing,
and those snippets which you couldn't seem to
make-out or understand will be my grim masochistic
pleasure never to forget. One last hint—I am
pretty famous as a pretender. My stage-name is:
let me think about it for a
minute and get back to you.
