Quackery
Fiction, Poetry

Yore

To be American is a frightful awful thing. It is the opposite of meaning.

Meaning, the direction of unified factors, a square, a trapezoid, shadows of the fifth dimension. A life devoid of panache, the eagle above the cloud. Lateral pressures in a raging stream, debts in torrents, drowning men.

Kids. Children. Young men. The procession of ages stops and staggers and races past.

The last day of summer. Pick-up games at the Pony League. Afternoons of clouds and eagles and my dad’s ‘62 Chevy.

“You ever think about the future?” I asked aloud.

“Nah,” they answered. And I agreed.

The light of the world was polarized.

How could we see the world at forty-five degrees? We knew nothing but the days in the sun, dauntless days of chasing geese on the lake and shagging flies in the dirt, days in quarter arcades, sweet taffy, grilled burgers, and eight millimeter film; days in the clouds and nights in the stars; days of stolen centerfolds and copping feels; days without end, dying embers and dreams of youth.

We piled into cars and raced the block. The block, the square, a flat plain in planar space. Locality intertwined. Leaves fell, clouds burst, we huddled behind bleachers, trading cards for ancillary light.

The grounded state. The end of everything and the beginning of nothing. Days of summer into Fall. What would we do, when the square became the cube? Where would we be? Who would we love? Would we still play ball? Would we still race cars? Would diffusion of perspectives correlate our distances and time?

In the end, there was nothing. We were sucked into the cube, its entanglements paradoxical and dark. The eagle skimmed the clouds. The books became our games, and flies changed into ladders.

“I want to play here when we’re fifty,” I said, teasing my words with fingertips as they slipped beyond the light.

“I sure hope so,” they replied, words drifting into night, the upper slit of continuity where dreams of children dissociate and die.

I reversed my baseball cap, stretched out my arms at ninety degrees, and closed my eyes. Particles and waves surrounded my senses, backwards moving and incoherent, adrift in seas of light, discontinuous and irreversible, intuitive and non-distinct. Unbound, I disappeared, a distinct memory through time, where time and distance were the same.

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About Quackzalcoatl

Phoneticist, Palindrologist, and freelance Sharknadologist. Inventor. Ruler of 2-acre lakes and small streams.

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