They folded the antique windsock and walked off in elliptical
circles, spinning tin plates and sporting their biggest, reddest
boots like a pile of hot popes out for a romp underground. It
couldn’t happen. One child’s half-life as a Cro-Magnon man.
I imagine the reunion of all my hangovers. They smile, then
pose for a big group shot before swarming across the gym’s
wooden floor, they’re hooting like a colony of cheerleaders
as they peppy themselves up into a trembling pyramid that’s
like an old headlamp that can only flicker. Exactly how many
parasols have you ever eaten, sunning yourself by the banks
of the Seine? There is a primal lack of depth to the stunning
darkness of the caves. We dream in torches and sing of flint
like the Beach Boys, moving forward, that’s the thing, move
forward and pretend you’re at peace. Teams form. Teams
disappear. Someone invents booze and so some of us settle
down. The first flag, the first blender, we hear about people
who paint with dots. It’s a lot to wrap your head around. I
wet my finger and I hold it in the air. Where I’m standing at
is already gone, a cathedral of loss. Gazing into a starless sky
is like inching through a cave. It had to never happen again.
Jeffrey Little | The Uncertainty Principle
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)