The robbers hasten their liquor store evacuation, the day the sky barges arrived. Turns out, there was no need.
Effie was aset at the burled wooden desk, plate of blackberries, the culprits bleeding on her fingers. The barges drifted past. She heard them before she saw them. The cat had been fretting all morning. This reduced her surprise at the surprising.
She heard old music. Old timey. Pressed for phonograph. Tinny music. The kind men in fur coats would Charleston to, while drinking: alumnus attending the homecoming game of his alma mater. Girls twirl like it is the 1920’s. Reservedly untoward. The dance is all in the eyes.
This flashes in her mind, a daydream of orientation. Her curiosity piqued, she makes for the front room, with its huge picture windows, framed by newly painted, unadorned white walls.
Picturesque, but now the Douglas firs partially obscure her view of the aerostrocities. They move at a painfully slow knots per hour.
Ima grab those blackberries. They are not in rush and I’m hungry as eff.
She pops them ala popcorn into her mouth, watching. Her neighbors begin to venture outside. Some voluntary evacuation necessitated by a craving for speculation. The steely comfort of hearing someone else acknowledge the surprising, and then say, “I think it must be…”
Their words crackled like burning logs, the freezing air making every word they spoke become the smoke. Hazy veil from the heat source warming their fear. Tirefire.
Effie watched them, too. Actors on the stage.
A bit lit.
Branches bumble and shake snow on me.
Wet, excited dogs preparing to come in after a romp.
I slip about on tip toes.
Inside ampersand outside.
Hamhocks hog tie knots.
Due to recent disuse.
I disabuse them of their notion of stiffness.
A sun barely seen still strikes the sheets
So much light.
That a special spatial situation existed in the universe was not altogether unknown, but was kept quite hush hush. About 95% of all human particles were unawares of any such phenomenon like the one above described. Making the particulars public, it was assumed, would spawn terrorist attacks, chemical warfare, cronyism, and all other manners of manipulation that were intent upon bumping the human lynchpin out of the middle. No one wanted to take the lynchpin’s spot but acted on account of (a) they could not understand the impersonal, non-special truth that no one is ‘picked’ to be the center, no one is unworthy, or (b) they just wanted to tear the world up.
Knowledge of the esoteric variety may be seemingly spurious or craven, but appearance is not always indicative of insides. The special knowledge certain occult-ish groups harbor is not superficial at all. The problem was that most practitioners had no idea how to apply this knowledge to their benefit, let alone how to use this knowledge without it being at the expense of an unaffiliated innocent. The power of those ancient precepts could no longer be fathomed for homo sapiens had forgotten what power is.
Power is the ability to redirect external phenomena at will: that is, to be the more forceful of two objects colliding in order that you continue on in your initial direction, while re-routing the direction of the other object away from its initial vector.
This and nothing less or more is power.
Nothing more than this exists.
Since the lynchpin homo sapien, Effie, is itself no different in composition from all other homo sapien particles, it could, theoretically, be subject to the force of a hypothetical juggernaut particle that delivers a blow of such momentum and force that it rips her from the center.
Do not own rights, just paying mad homage.
Many have done Proud Mary but few compare to this reinterpretation.
Creole delta blues babe!
Who is not guilty.
As soon as I accuse I am guilty.
Your dispassionate acknowledgement aches as much as that I aver myself to you in dispassion, presumeably.
Share and share alike says the one with no vested interest in sharing.
What are we to make of this?, says the hardworking young lady who only recently became vested.
Benevolence could unsuspectingly become malificence here.
Here in our position. Do we care?
But what would they know of us, anywazy.
They would know what we allowed and told.
Because as beautiful nobodies, we dodge gazes but come together in verbal symetry.
You know you’re a redneck if you’ve been calling Michel Foucault, Michael Foe-cawlt. Tis a pendulum, I suppose. Who knew the below? Not this lady!