Not requiem for a blog, fortunately. After some nine days of nebulous nonsense, finally bolted from morasses multiple, the author has returned to seek the fulcrum, and — now to the point — seems to have found again the necromancy of production, though, sadly, not yet in the Asiatic mode. But such prose shall have to suffice, so let it recommence with the more condensed variety of our slithery mother tongue in the form of a meditation on our fair city.
I. Chicago
Crawl, then, into ancient buildings, up ocher-rusted girders, perch like a beast atop a blasted frame. It is still there: that jutting massif, savage lake, froze bitter to tectonic horizon. Oxygen flecks iron, bolts cling to staggered grooves; millions of wheels glimmer about the edges of the giant’s cragged ribs, scars wrested up from within the city’s abdomen. With blades glinting, thoughts carve down, centrally, through layers of brick, then arc flat and into ghetto dreams of a would-be emperor lingering over fires in oil drums perforated, distended by the heat of hope and his child who mingles 9 mm rounds with the percussive speech of his dice. Requiem for an epoch, for a tank, for an afternoon, for a photograph. Requiem for for a trench. In Chicago. Rolling away like mud fog to Indiana, a wave of carp thunders south, drowning, gorged with galvanic acid, ferrous aftermath of the stamp upon steel discs, heavily, bearing your name.
Adam Cathcart 