10 for


The word boys


Hear us machines


Rocket over whose


Mechanical entity means


I Cap am


My own destiny


In the breach


You are ME


As I am


Cap Called

We are drawn

The horizon draws us

The way it happens is that you become unclear. A bright black morning takes you. There is fear and panic like our moons Phobos and Daimos. Phobos is doomed they say but you see it on the horizon every day, rising and setting in its narrow course. They are captives. It is said. You become one also.

As with the I, at first you seem to die. But then you find it’s not that but this -- a pure form called the old cold. People come back from it. Or least they seem to come back. They seem like people.

It’s never just one

We are drawn

Out & down


Stendahl

Time Flies

A crack in the glass over Parphar resulted in a release of flies out of and into the dome over the city. Billions of them drifted down into town. At first they were thought to be volcanic ash from Olympic Mons in spite of the impossible distance involved but were later identified as biostatic debris, the affect of which is well known to be a sometimes terminal melancholy. This melancholy, along with the unscheduled rain that was authorized to wash them away, caused a wave of contemplative verse among poets which in turn generated a severe time storm. A deadly wave of nostalgia hit particularly hard in the Spectacular area, recently affected by political and philosophical unrest. Citizens there are said to feel like their hearts are laid out on their café tables for all to see.

A broadside was circulated of a poem called The Flies along with the rumor that the poem and, in fact, the event were comments on our recent visitors. The author is said to have denied the connection. On closer examination it was noted that the poem does not contain any words, relying for effect on image and intimation. It has entered the canon immediately. Several imitations, a diagram and one commentary have appeared.

The storm, however, rages on.

Stendahl

Alan Halsey

et al.

They are more alive than we are.

more T


3 lbs mugwort
25 lbs tea
3 lbs honey
5 boxes beeswax
bolt papyrus
gal. sepia


Tinia’s patterns have changed. She is more linear. When we speak I expect to be confused but she is quite clear. Her skin shines with the new lines. She is gearing up to be gone in a way that doesn’t require supplies as much as the sheer force of inertia.

Her current thinking is analogic. The dangers are denotative as when a sudden derangement of thinking blows up in your face. Always a danger anywhere but here an everyday occurrence.

More ink I think she is saying somewhere in my head. And tea. Always more tea.

Dayv

Stell,
Not much time. It’s hard to know what to think. Eddie seems to be reliving all past wars. It’s like he’s not on the planet or too much on it. He has become Stendahl more than Eddie. I can’t keep track. I have the sense that I am fading though I have never felt more real. At least the sex is still great.
Right now,
Nahid

Las descubiertas


The planet is strung out, coming down like an old junkie with no new ideas. That we are here at all, the Occupation, as we have finally learned to call it, once seemed natural or at least inevitable. It was open-ended, but no longer. Many of us will leave or have left already. Others have come to understand the cold. The I among us are gone, but there are those who have the knack of the old power. Some have gone past the glass into the flats of the Utopian Desert. There there are caves, waves of stone, roads made by meteors, holes in the hoarfrost, doors and floors that have grown there but seem made. They are like graves.

Las descubiertas are there. They are patterns. They think and create thought. The I could read them but they have been illegible to most humans until now. Now they have demands. They have needs.

Stendahl