Posted by @ 8:50 pm on May 18th, 2013


THAT THEY DROWNED, that was a surprise. You fashion a raft by binding their bodies together in a tangle and set off down the riviera. Piles of burning furniture fanned by the wings of big moths diving between scraps of fabric trailing sparks as they dance up out from the bonfires lined along the city’s banks. You feel tan. There’s a breeze. Again you inspect the map, the schematics. Eyes closed you rehearse in mind the soundings, trace with your fingertip their signs in the air.

By the time you arrive in front of the theater your necrotic gondola has bloated, rotted apart. Ready? asks Blanchot on the radio. Ready responds Blanchot. Your grappling gun finds its hooks around a gargoyle’s neck near the southwest spire. You scale the wall, climb in through an unpatched hole in the roof.

Crawling in the dark you tear your knees, your palms. Splinters long as splints. Your blood mixes thick dust blanketing the scarred wooden floor. Now you’re blind in a corner you can’t get out of, down low under an angle impossibly wide and breathing. Here this is, you figure, and resign yourself.

Cough, sputter,

In the TRAVELOGUE OF AN IMMOBILE NOMAD our pilgrim speaks of the nomad’s vision with the tape recorder. This during that time he’d given up speech, saw himself seen as a lack, a man-shaped recess in space, an outline receding in an obsidian hallway carved by his being’s flinging backward away from the things of this world, of encounters. What had been his blindspot (the body) became a door he turned to passing through, drawn into that emptiness as by a great wind. The edges carved to what had been his edges in the world of persons and things tightened the deeper in he shuttled. He felt himself contracted, reduced unto his vanishing point

— [ and there he was floating, outside of space and time and all made things, a tape recorder in his hand and he was speaking, his-speech-the-recorder umbilical, symbiotic, generative of something prior even to potentiality, creator of the deep on the face of which the light would one day move. ]

Splash. Water in the face.
Soft focus sharpening.


Here’s Blanchot. Thought we lost you. Your wounds, you notice, have been bandaged. How long was I out? Don’t ask such inane fucking questions.

We’re in the projection room. The lead detective, you notice, is bound to a chair, his throat cut. The hostages are piled sleeping at his feet. Oh, you say, you found them. I was almost certain they’d drowned.

On top of the projector, your dossier. Retrieved. Your gaze follows the flickering film passing thru the tiny window and into the auditorium. The backs of anonymous heads perfectly still, facing forward in the dark in a shared yet private immersion. You wave.