texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at email@example.com for consideration...
What? sniped the earpiece, rash rough crushing thrusting at Jamed’s ear, saying, What?
No? Why now what do you mean no hey what wait a minute Jeff cut the line yeah Jeff like I said
cut the audio! Right! So Jeff obeyed generating shuffling plastic on metal clashing while
electronically slowing down, pausing silently, stopping, so, yes; go; cut, thus boiling up silence
hard sharp and brittle, which packed hard filling Jamed’s ear canal, just like it had more than ten
times earlier in the God-damned conference call, with a kind of switch-click then a deeper
hollow nothing that all screamed all crazy, the show’s shut off the plug is pulled there will be no
more go on and hang up sounds like it might be like it might be it all the way, eh, yes—at the
emergence of this hollow nothing meaning everything gone empty noise, Jamed gave up and
pulled the phone from his burning with pain ear, the lobe of which was beet-red from having
tight pressure applied day after day of this months-long round table dissertation, which might be
over now yes or no but it seems the answer is yes because the pulled-down earpiece hissed with
sudden sound easily heard that said in every decibel of its elemental incoherence, OK listen now
we’re close to the end thank God we’re close to coming so wake up; this pistoned out hard from
the hot sweaty earpiece, and plunged further on grinding crushing harder yet against Jamed’s raw
red earlobe, pumping in more pain, that grew intense as that experienced when both ears are
being slowly slashed off by unwashed men using old kitchen knives for some silly but very evil
reason, only bearable in that this version though just as intense, is only momentary and words
once more flowed in against Jamed’s tissue thin pink eardrum, smoothly anesthetizing the
wounds where the ears feel like they’ve been forcibly removed, and calming him all the way in
through all past the drum and on across the hammer anvil and stirrup and on down spiraling into
the centrifugal cochlea, down and down straining for the finish line crowd all cheering, being,
gone, all hung up, and slammed down, but the phone can’t break no, it’s plastic. And, thank God,
thank God, thank God, now he can run and go pee.
What time is it anyway?