Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

Begin, raw, incandescence. Raw, full moon, broad tree in sleepless field of dancers &
doors. Full moon, raw, begin, stripes of ecstasy, strips of woe. Raw. Incandescence. Begin.
Continue, mature, dreams til daylight . . . then blankness . . . hookah explanations . . .
theories, purgations, crescendos. Blood & thunder. Continue, dreamless daylight. Beards & woolen
caps ‘gainst the frost of doubt. Cold. Colder. Burn. Burning.
Burn. Burning. Most hopeful that we all burn together. Most fearful that we are like
candles, flickering on, flicking off.
But burning. Burning, no matter the. Burning, beginning, still raw, words & skin, music
& colors, laughter & fire. Laughter.
We watch Franny Emily Renée Salinger die, watch my lover die, we are brought by
Soulard back to early 1998, brought down South, we are invisible & substanceless to all save
ourselves. Rebecca takes my hand.
A subway station. Mechanical voiced station stop announcements. Gate A. Gate B.
“I bet this is the Atlanta Airport,” Reb says. “Franny told me once that it has its own
subway it’s so big.”
A metal & plastic hurling machine. Franny on the other end of the car. We move
closer, travel by thought, neither walking nor flying.
Franny looks beautiful & sad. Very beautiful & very sad. She has no bags. The car is
crowded but she still stands alone. Her energy is frighteningly dark tho she is fairly
composed.
Train whishes into a station & more people crowd in while few depart. Now Franny
is crowded, nearly crushed against a door.
“She’s fading,” Rebecca warns & it’s true. Franny is dissipating. We follow her into
this dwindling state. Somehow we are able.
When all solidifies again, we seem to be in the same car save that it’s now empty.
Franny looks more composed.
She seems to see me. She sees something for she backs away, running as I make to
follow.
We pass through train-cars heedless of closed doors, pass endlessly from train car to
train car.
I begin to lose sight of her.
mass.
No time passes forever.
I stop chasing her. She’s gone for right now. I wait. Let be. Let go.
Rebecca takes my hand & I realize she’s been by my side quietly forever.
“I guess we can’t know everything about what happened,” she says quietly.
“This isn’t what happened before. At least not yet,” I say.
It won’t be. Any of it, Americus. You’re already in the underworld.
“What do I do, Soulard?”
“Run. Run, motherfucker!”
Rebecca follows, carrying his guitar. Dream dots, both, in an undifferentiated cosmic
Are they in Hell? What is this place? What is its nature? Imagine blindness of all the
senses on a riled bright hot day, a roused sensual pinkcheeked growl of a day.
9
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005