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Amid the hectic rush to get from point A to point B, the bitter and broken metaphor.

At one brutal end of time, at one far end of the earth, all there was was a metaphor, or part of one.

Who was it before us that tried to fly that figure of speech, and it did not get off the ground? But that did not stop us.

Re-envisioned, it was organic, summery and green, it rose lighter than air in the hangar like THE SMELL OF URINE.

Remains of dessicated or destroyed flimsy errors, deformations or aborted attempts made a carpet of leaves on our faces.

Allusive faded whiteness, holy Scotch tape, pissy child. Unfinished sentence.

Eye test for pilot candidates, get a haircut. $12 per hour, my neighbor vomiting last night after the party.

LIKE HUGE metaphors roaming through the dark night. You could see the lights.

Summative, sums. DOWN, UP.

"I don't give a fucking goddamn who the hell is down there! I will make my connection!" cried the metaphor, throwing yet another fit.

Inside the metaphor was a simile or synecdochial wonder, at least. Yellow as mustard.

Some bled from their orifices, some their bodies turned black. The lucky survived and are still working today. No one knows about them.

The light was not a symbol. The palm frond was not a dead dog. The look was not a signal. The empty intersection was not a turning point. The figure was not latency.

Attached were concepts of motion, stasis, departure, destination, filth, fertilization, rupture, deformation, birth. Some people objected.

Tumbleweeds of truth. Stickers of factuality. Cuttings of mordant replantings. Rhyzomatic and axiomatic smears. That's all we said. Or what?

Fetishizing violence wasn't the metaphor. Building something out of nothing was.

Not even. Not now. Not later. Not ever. However, it was seen as a figure in the metaphor.

April 2011