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George SandersYet's DryHe comes to. There is a place. It is everywhere. All at once, both. Since there are more than two sides. To everything let live and this gate is as much a part of what it separates. As barrier, as hiding ground, as stop. As it is in itself- a gate. A word or two about a gate. This is a GATE. It is not a fence, it is a word. Not a gate. A gate. There is a place, this gate, place. And two others on either side, maybe more. Standing off, inside the opening, holding it just so. They are. There was a gate. Having been closed off at one time. Now not that's yet. And this gate, there is one only. But two are standing beside it. Talking, open. This gate will be the eyes on the prize. They are, the both of them, standing around. They are not. He appeared to be arguing with him. That's. One time and then the next: preacher, peter, pierre, rock-solid. The other waited. In order to see what was coming net- all of that which had already been: reported, lived, waited, recorded somewhere. Recorded nowhere. And looking inside the words coming out. Flipped, right- side-in with his insides peering out, was the examinations X-ray eyes. To detect: half-truths, misunderstandings: he finds himself a lie: he's. No. A would-be. A praise, victorious. Outta'-outta'-outta'-outta'-outta'-outta outta'-outta'-outta'-outer edges no longer insight. Inside something. This is an examination; not a gate. He learns to relax and allow what will happen to do as much as it hadn't in the past. Which was all-encompassing and self-contained at this point. He will be done soon and then he will be chosen. Either/or. He and his eschatological murmurings had always warned him and grumblings and groans too quiet to be perceived by human ears. Was listening. There is a story here. There is not a history to this. This is not. His. And his and his and his and his and his and his and his: it is the same unsatisfied, unsatisfactory, satisfaction. There is no winning this game. Having had a story, he will forget it. Which the required leaping distance. Traversing this, the other came to a quick conclusion. He's not satisfied. Unaccepting. I'll make a deal with you. The deal is not a deal. No deal. Everything is not a pair of dice. Die. Cast a rod. Wait. The deal is quid pro quo; me for you. Something for nothing (with a capital letter?) of something that's long since been forgotten? I'11 trade you what you're understanding. A deal, perhaps. Give and forget. Forgive. Take it as it comes as it comes and it comes as it comes, the deal had not even been a deal. A word or two about dice and chance. Who listens attentively to the offer. It was, indeed, a deal, hard. This is a difficult matter. He couldn't say no. Either. Or. As he pitched, the other chewed. There was a deal to be had here. Afterwards, he searched the gate. Then, along the dealer. One deals. But something occurs before the story has reached its resolution. That he is, they are, the two of them combined, no longer anything less than participants. When, reflexively, he reaches for an ankle. No deal. No. Thinking he would provide, washing his feet. The leap is beyond him, beyond its confines. The dealer is quicker though and the dealt and the one forced to rely upon instincts. In due process, keeping him from coming inside as his soul had been laid bare. He was not granted entrance yet it was only an ankle that he'd been able to prevent from passing. Except it was sweat. No, he'd considered this thoroughly. And previously greased his ankles because of his lightning speed. Because of his foresight, imagination. He has none. There is no gate. He is faster than the gate. He has grease on his ankles and the grip betwixt them cannot hold. Slip. Through. It is done. The palm. (There are broken lines. Bread.) No, his ankle had done the trick. No deals. No games. He forgot. But he knew how to look ahead. The lines on his palm. From one side to the net, as he passed his interlocutor he smiled and wished him well. Leave well enough when he passed on. Here, now. Then, next. Gone. One side passing as he smiled his way through, gracing the edges. His greasy ankles because the other one had no more handles to react with (to grab on to). Slipped elsewhere. He will not catch you. Hurriedly greasing his ankles. Stepping up. |
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