Don’t, they say, you can’t, you shouldn’t
\nstare at the deformed, what bullshit,
\npull down the beat-up shade
\nand weep until your eyes swell,
\nit’s a great mistake not to
\nbuild a little shrine to her tits in the yard,
\nor shout fuck! in a crowded theater,
\ngo ahead, rise to the occasion,
\nbut leave deep tracks in the snow.<\/p>\n
Investigations into the Tectonics of the Tibetan Plaeau<\/strong><\/p>\n The chief inspector leans back in his chair The dead aren’t missing much, he muses.<\/p>\n My right arm hangs dead at my side. His men, spread out across the plateau, I only escape because they let me. strung ladder on which I might is gone.<\/p>\n Ghosts of Breath<\/strong><\/p>\n 1 2 3 4 The Pedagogy of the Possessed<\/strong><\/p>\n The teacher stands swaying at the front of the classroom. At the Sign of the Mortar & Pestle<\/strong><\/p>\n Who’ll turn the witch’s broom back into a tree? Who’ll Dog Years<\/strong><\/p>\n The war has entered its second decade. Maddened by the
\nand picks his teeth with a matchstick.<\/p>\n
\nPerhaps I’m bleeding from somewhere as well.<\/p>\n
\nrap smartly on the doors of empty apartments.<\/p>\n
\nBut the moon is chipped, and even the star-<\/p>\n
\nonce have climbed wobbly toward it<\/p>\n
\nSomething terrible must’ve happened. The fire engines are
\nscreaming. We sit up in bed, only to lie back down. It’s
\nfive in the morning. Our faces are next to each other,
\nclose enough for a kiss. We exchange medieval looks of
\nfear and doubt.<\/p>\n
\nYesterday I was an elderly assistant professor shouting
\nthe homework assignment to hurriedly departing backs.
\nToday I’m a house painter balancing on an untrustworthy
\nladder. Tomorrow \u00ad who knows? I might be standing over the
\nbowl, eyes half-closed, taking a long, foamy, post-coital
\npiss.<\/p>\n
\nThey follow me with their eyes as if asking, why are you
\nhere? Why is anyone anywhere? It could be because of a
\nchemical extracted from the urine of pregnant mares. Or it
\ncould be because of the raving mother who noisily refuses
\nto surrender her baby for burial. It could even be because
\nof the strange and sudden resurgence of peeling ceilings.
\nThere can be no solution if there \u00b9s no mystery.<\/p>\n
\nCome morning, I’ll renew my flight, a hat and scarf to
\nhide my face and a pill sewn in the lining of my pocket in
\ncase of capture. I’ll pass through small towns God has
\nabandoned, where the stoplights work, but traffic is
\nfrozen. I’ll hear guerilla fighters scurrying about the
\ntunnels beneath the soybean fields. I’ll think less and
\nless about the future perfection of society and more and
\nmore about dying. I’ll be hungry all the time. As in a
\nlegend, the ravens will feed me.<\/p>\n
\nMany of the students think he must be drunk. His face is
\nflushed, and his hands flutter like disoriented birds as
\nhe speaks in desperate tones about black holes,
\ncarnivores, ancient Babylon. But he isn’t drunk; he’s
\nmerely over-prepared. In the faculty lounge the older
\nteachers laugh at his earnestness. They feel superior
\nbecause he hasn’t realized yet that when he turns to write
\nsomething on the board, the students vanish \u00ad true, some
\nonly momentarily, but others forever.<\/p>\n
\nmake the dead baby to crawl again? You? Ha! Somehow I
\ndon’t think so. But step inside the shop. An odd but not
\nunpleasant odor. Cellophane packets of ground bone arrayed
\non the counter. Shelves lined with well-stoppered bottles.
\nA Mason jar in which an unidentifiable pink organ floats.
\nNecklaces of wildflowers hanging from hooks. And over
\nthere in the far corner, his pale eyes narrowed in
\nconcentration, the apothecary’s assistant breaking long,
\nstraight strands of hair, rather like your own, into a
\nfuriously boiling pot.<\/p>\n
\nfutility, the dogs run away. Few people seem to notice
\nthat they’re gone. Three times a day, if not more, their
\nformer owners take empty leashes out for a walk. Just this
\nmorning the old widow stopped to let a polite little boy
\non his way to school bend down and scratch behind the ears
\nof what wasn’t there.<\/p>\n
![\"tomorrow_cover1\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2009\/01\/tomorrow_cover1.jpg\")
![\"howie_good_headshot\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2009\/01\/howie_good_headshot.jpg\")
The chief inspector leans back in his chair