Debris (the bridge)
Before there can be any sense of drama
there must first exist some pre-conceived
concept of the drama.
A dialogue is composed of rhythmic
Back from that wicked Count, as you see, a
merrier world I will not make. It is the octave layering the half-tones. A body
marked with a thin system of forms.
Limited to the gaunt poses, they were there
at the end of the bridge.
There was much measurement to the bridge.
I could find no reason to limit the tones.
As a musical instrument, the bridge was not
completely limited. There were measured
responses in various terms.
What is this it clicks? It has a clicking sound. There were three words to describe it.
I cannot make the world a place of joy.
Surely signore, I have heard the goodly old
man upon the crucifix. There is no joy in
But at the end of the bridge a group of
angels say on a pile of wooden skids. He
had marked his time. The bridge was found
wanting the removal of debris. The
corners, the edges, and the frilled ends
were marked with debris. To walk across
the bridge would cause one to feel
themselves not unlike the state of debris.
Yet they were fluid.
I have cycles in my head. I have cycles in
Your body is not cold but it is always
filled with a chill. There is a constant
frame of perspective. The clouds reveal a
vanitasse within the frame of your
perspective. I did walk across the bridge.
The bridge was found hidden on the top of a
ridge that overlooked the corner where the
car wash and the used car lot say across
from each other. Here was a track that
moved across the river, over a bridge.
Just across from the bridge, another bridge ran, filled with autos and debris. It
seemed that bridges had a penchant for
gathering debris, no matter what usage.
I have cycles in my head.
He was not just walking across a bridge on
this day, a Saturday. There was a blue
gradation of white on the snow. The air
stung the same way that a rifle spits
carbon when fired. There was a snapped
sensation in everything. A concept created
debris in his perspective.
A train would sometimes be found still on
the tracks. A body bloated, it too had
established a sense of debris. The fluid
concept had not been eliminated. Here cycles form in the fluid frames of his
perspective as he runs his hand along the
side of the train cars. There is the concept of manufacture, a sense of craft.
Industry presents an appendage. There are
appendages in his every view.
He has found this Saturday morning filled
with a sense of drama. He has aligned the
stars, as he puts it, to his own hand. He has prepared a sense of foreknowledge of
success. He has found the concept worthy of
Three angels sit at the end of the bridge
on a pile of wooden skids.
It is night,.
On this bridge, he had once spent the
night. It was night. Coldness and the
city sky light grids had created a concept
of overview. Straddled in the appendage of
the very thing was a pocket not limited by
the perspective of manufacture. The arts
set for the concept but rather the
constructions defined by debris. Hre was
formed by the debris of the bridge, the
debris of the city, and the debris of a
small train light at the end of the bridge
where three angels sat on a pile of wooden
It is Saturday morning and he has awoken to find the weather has wasted the ntetworks of
Harrisburg has been shut down, according to
every local radio station. He will have to
walk in the snow.
Surely I had not been considered in the
matter. I would assume the knowledge had
been purposefully withheld from my
He had not merely decided to walk across
the bridge. It was early Saturday
morning. He had not merely decided to walk
across the bridge.
At one time he could recall a story. He
had been coming home late.
Perhaps an August night heat for it felt
like the moist fingers of the earth rubbed
against your skin.
Not your skin. My skin
As a child he had been exposed to
sudden temperatures. He met the
steam-gloated water with his bare skin, his
pale skin. He had pale pink skin with a
shade or a hue of soft washed-out green
To have lived eighty years one should be
content with their time.
He had only this time. He would have the
snow. On a chill morning. I have heard
these sounds of manufacture. It stings.
Like scissors through the air, it cuts. I
have heard the confusion which is not
unlike the breakers transmitting the static
code. There is a rhythm or a pulse not
without the measure of the weather.
We have manufactured the weather, yet we
cannot contain it. As a child he had been
thrown into a hot, scolding hot tub of
water. It must be noted that concept of
the term hot should be understood to
conclude that he had received such a
dramatic increase in temperature that his
pale pink skin with a washed-out green hue
did develop a redness not pure.
To continue, the ritual determined, the self
reflects the self. Is the self. Yet he
found her cold in the eyes. Fingers met the
division of forms with a pinch. Then some
manner of sparks on the hot skin. A brush swung does impact and expose the self to
pain, or a matter of self as debris.
A brush swung.
Although we have determined the matter
closed we will not speak without voicing
the well intentions we wish to display. He
could remember that three angles sat at the
end of the bridge, on a pile of skids. He
had remembered the pile of skids.
The bridge welled with sounds in this night
before that Saturday morning. He had seen
the train coming with its one light. The wind
was heavy with breaking sounds. The
vibrations around his form were in the same
rhythmic panic. A panic had determined
itself upon the situation. He was filled
with an urge to jump off the bridge.
Now we see the debris around the world
in the same frame of perspective. An
ability to transcend the sense of weather.
Determined to exist in a fluid state. We
must provide the fluid inertia. Yet he was
filled with the urge to jump. It seemed the only unpredictable thing he could do.
The chance that he will somehow fall in
front of the train is greater than the
chance that he would jump. He did not
think of it as suicide.
He did not calculate the net result.
To exist in a state which is not probable
in any remote sense of the term. To be
unpredictable he would find his voice. For
the world needs a voice.
I will be voiceless. I will remain
For this Saturday morning he would face an
added dilemma, the foot or so of snow.
Each step would be weighted with a
pronounced exertion requirement, thus
the debris. The dimensions had produced a condition. An event postponed. The snow
mangled an alternative path to the
There had been no snow gathered upon the
edge, outside the rail, of the bridge. He
could hasten his arrival by traversing the
outer edge of the bridge.
Here space fills and the depth is fully in
view. He could gather the surface of the
river in his whole view beneath his feet.
He had once rested upon the edge of the
bridge on a hot night in August. In this
time he had felt the vibrations from an
oncoming train. He had dared to believe
that he would jump.
Would jump. He would jump off the bridge
and find the texture of the water with his
body. He would fill the river with his
body of debris.
This Saturday morning the radio reported
that Harrisburg had been shut down by the
snow. Yet he must still get to work.
There was always work to be done. He would
fill the screen with data. He would
compare the text of the day with the text
of the previous day. He would not fail.
There was a bridge to set him on his way.
He had found the edge and would come to
reach the other shore by traveling upon
He could not stop the pace he had
initiated. Small patches of debris slid
over the edge and into the water.
Green glass ball bearings rolled beneath
the heavy texture of his army boots. He
was fortunate to have them.
Prepared for the weather.
A man is never prepared for the weather,
rather his appreciative of its potential.
Debris stuck in his throat had made him
cough. he felt as though he could fall.
As a small boy he had been chased around
the streets of Harrisburg by his brother,
who swung at him with an ornamental, blunt
sword or saber. He had found the sense of
To envision a pose. He had seen the pose
of his brother swinging the saber in a
circular motion above his head. A certain
pose suggesting a menace, or an ill
But he was much faster than his brother.
Had sliced, or rather, ripped open the bag
of groceries he carried in. There the new
debris filled the hallway. A bottle of
tomato juice had created some red form on
the white linoleum floor. He had only
enough time to exist. He did not look
behind him but he could feel and hear his
brothers manic form giving chase.
And now the edge of a bridge he found
his own form filled with a sense of debris.
There was a bridge, or some thought. To
reach the dimensions of drama required a
previous construction of the event. he had
prepared himself to sleep. he would not
venture out. Every network closed.
A placement of debris had filled the paths.
Across a bridge. here there was the one
path open to his flow. To move toward the
He would traverse the river. He would
cross the path. A man across a path. Yet
he was sure of the night before. He had felt cool with air. This was not the
last night but rather some night. Perhaps
an August night, but he had been tied to the
To let go. The weather is sure of the
outcome. You can be sure. Here has the
The weather has come into the perspective.
There is a narrow dimension to view. He
must traverse the bridge to arrive on time.
This was not to be a simple measured
thing. He must walk on the edge. he had
once decided to jump, but he did not.
There was a concept of drama, yet there was
no sense of it at the time.
I must cross the tracks.
The bridge held a path, a mere infrequent
network to the main line. When a train
would break the space or zone wherein
he would reach the bridge through, is wait
would exceed twenty minutes. He would most
likely be late for work. He must be there
This instant had come wherein he could
conceivably break the plane before the
train cuts it off. Here the train will
sever the network, will delay his
arrival. He must reach the plane first.
The train conductor shook his fist at the
brash young man. He had been felling tired
I have felt tired for many days. I would
write with my right hand as if a child, for
I write with my left. Could not conceive.
The judgments hid oneself from the proper
The bodies define themselves. Once, while
trying to tune a guitar, the string snapped
and lacerated the meaty part of the outside
of his right hand. Did not notice the
pain, yet soon some reddish debris
pronounced itself. Then follows a pain.
He is sharp with the sensation. It is not the intention, but rather the
While the body can barely see itself fully,
he is aware of the complete form. A step
will take him closer. He had tried many
counting games to trick his sense of time.
Yet it would always drag on. He could
never get across fast enough.
Once, he had tried to jog. While this cut
the time down dramatically, the energy
usage, as a whole, dramatically increased
to such a high pronounced degree that the
time spent to recover his senses inevitably
exceed the time it would take to quietly
walk across the bridge.
So he would walk across the bridge.
Horror. The mirror in the river did not
present a clear perspective. Had he slipped?
He remembers brushing a lucid green glass
ball bearing beneath his feet. Had he
Three angels sat at the end of a bridge on
a pile of wooden skids. To get rid of, or
to get oneself rid of, or to have himself
He had once thought that a man could be
removed by merely signing a sheet of paper.
You must have a signature.
Somehow people felt an admiration, despite
the leery perspective. To be constantly
shading the clarity of the language in
order to conceal any possible negative
connotation directed toward any individual
he had felt a sense of vision but he was
sure of their forms. Three angels sat at
the end of a wooden bridge on a pile of
wooden skids. I suppose we were not
comfortable with his role in the whole
A vicar delivers lemon water to her chamber
A solution without vision is useless. A
proper strength is gained with the
network of her ideals, not within the
aspect of self as an acting
participant. He had held a sacred view
of her for many times in many days.
Who could afford to dress every child in
the world? I have no money. You would
unite the two networks or simply offer a
little used branch to divert the load.
Would a train not meet him every night and
every Saturday morning?
This night he would jump. It is always the
presence without form that commands a
perspective. He had prepared to deny her
the privilege. A clear issue will loom
over the small forests upon the ridge that
the rail guided.
Pacify the city. Harrisburg is shut down.
He has found a bridge to traverse. He will walk
upon the edge.
He will dream of falling.
hyper (as in a remedy). He would not
hold her. He would not kiss her.
Bathes in the stream with but one rag to
conceal and scrub with.
as in a remedy.
a planed curve. Splash. The time we
spent together. They had spent much
While we remain in the shadow.
when all the leaves fall through the
A dense plain. And the mob chased her
into a church where they dragged her in
to a church and there killed her.
as in a dense plain.
the ancients to a mythical people.
There was a spiritual twist to the whole
affair. The text, not the drama, had
sensed a position of eternal spring and
Hyperboreans Does he love her? Does
he feel a sensation? She had some
measure of influence over him.
Tween the root of the tongue and the
larynx. Given breath or whole and
apparent visions. He found visions but
he was not altogether sure of their
truth. Could be a rumor.
He received a thorough training in the
Talmud and went on to become a wandering
scholar in Constantinople. She was in a
state of visions when he happened upon
her. Somehow uninspired, he could never
clearly recall the tale in any of a number
of extensive interviews he had given
in his lifetime.
It could be a rumor,
he would always say.
written in a spirit of sincere and
humble piety, interspersed with prayers
and colloquies between Christ and the
devout soul. She shouted at him day and
night. He was not accustomed to such
things. They were an ill fit.
softened by heating to redness and
cooling slowly alloys. The first spoken
moment had been remembered with much
It is black pigment. Some spatial
qualities exist despite dark spots.
She shouted at him day and night.
Although she was not a Jew, he could
still love her.
Down on her knees. She was down on her
knees. Writing inks with her fingers a
mixed lampblack with glue or gum. Would
slow the tap outside their window every
night. It belongs to the family and it
has shining leaves.
She laughed when he told her what
non-sequitur meant. Theres no such
thing, she said between her laughter.
You have to mean something to say it.
You would hear these taps outside the
window at night during storms. Every
time. The same pattern soon began to
emerge. The grapes downstairs had been
left out and would soon lose their
Down on her knees.
Toils in a fluid medium when needed.
Various plant juices of which the brown
juice turns black when in contact.
lime. Her silk pajamas had been
hand-made in China. He had slices of
lime delivered to her by one of his
students every night.
The early morning she would find a slice
of lime fresh chilled, on a small blue
onyx plate. With precise measurements
she would pinch the ends of the skin
together to deliver juice into her eyelids
with her dipped fingers.
He had come from an elevated site in the
Crimea called Inkerman. Toils in a
fluid medium when needed.
Innate ideas burst from this ink
swell. Describes the method to her over
and over again. Still she does not
understand. Kisses her on the forehead
once beneath the shadow of the church
spire. She walked around the city walls
until the sun lowed its head of flame.
Could be lowered. She felt her other
self had been lowered into the ground
with but a kiss. Could now determine
the self as contained with him. She
knew that she was not a Jew but she did
not seem to mind.