Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

An aspect at a higher frequency, the last remnants of the squareworld,
shoots an image of a beaming Arnold, his echoing voice drifting
across the distance, “learning, really learning…” but the reaction is a
belly laugh. He feels the laugh run up into his throat like bile, burning
acid aftertaste. At the same time, there is the feeling of a heavy object in
his hand. A silver, new .357 is solid in his left hand, a physical anchor
point for the experience.
Now he is totally on that street, surrounded by buildings, heading
towards the middle of the circle with small but determined steps. His
strides are strong and quick, he looks from side to side slyly, eyes dilating,
pulse raising, muscles tensing. The gun is heavy and comforting.
Internal monologue overpowering, traveling back to the visions of the
city, of the spacecraft of our past and future.
thousands of eyes
thousands of where’s
thousands of how’s and who’s and what’s?
I thought
of them at first as aliens—
thousands of people
thousands of worries
time to sleep.
I mean,
we the square,
caught in the web of time and space,
live by its mandates so long as we believe,
really believe
in the weaver
that the sun will rise tomorrow,
molder of chaos
that there is such a thing as “gravity,”
creator and creation of our “logic”
we have faith in God
dreamer and dreaming of our cities
Vishnu asleep in the cosmic ocean
because we have faith in grammar.
Along with this monologue ran images, shifting framerate faster and
slower, in a jittery, too-blue instructional montage. Over the city of
metal, I can see a tremendous ebony spider, shiny like polished onyx,
with long, slender legs, weaving its web over and over, dancing where
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