1560 c/o Marvin K. Mooney

The First Pirate Observes the Night Sky

A man could spend ‘is entire life watchin' Perseus move across th' night sky, runnin' away from th' Great Square. An' a lass could devote th' lass' ever' night t' watchin' Cygnus fall headfirst towards 't. These constellations will nay change. Unlike th' observers who age an' eventually sink t' Davy Jones' locker, Perseus will forere run from th' Great Square an' Cygnus be forere doomed t' careen towards 't. They be immortal. Picture perfect an' beautiful. They play the'r part wi' flawless conviction. Great grandparents o' great grandparents be havin' this in common wi' all the'r descendants: th' glowin' everlastin' paintin' o' th' night sky. 'Tis rotten then t' reckon th' sky be nay perfect. In fact, 'tis heartbreakin'. Reckon th' sheer loneliness Perseus must endure fer all o' eternity, fleein' th' Great Square. Th' sheer loneliness Cygnus must endure in th' lass' perpetual descent towards 't. They be both obviously lookin' fer somethin'. Love? Perhaps. But most likely they be lookin' simply fer companionship. Someone t' share the'r existence wi'. Cygnus be prayin' t' find 't at th' Great Square an' Perseus be convinced he can find 't elsewhere. They be so close in th' sky, only a wee fathoms from meetin', how sad 'tis t' be seein' them frozen thar so close t' findin' each other ever' single night. They be nay lost. They will simply neremeet. They will nereknow that th' other existed. Destiny will be havin' nothin' o' 't. Th' sky be a cruel vortex. 't has a dull luminosity like 't’s jus' barely hangin' on. Them silvery stars shine on accoun' o' they be havin' t' nay on accoun' o' they want t'. Th' sky has nay hope. Th' constellations be havin' nay dreams, but e'en if they did what use would they be? They be havin' nay way o' congregatin' amongst they's self t' discuss the'r wishes let alone act upon them. They be jus' as helpless as we be. But maybe they be better off. They do nay be havin' t' deal wi' flora or fauna. They don’t worry about other stars. They don’t be havin' scurvy or famine. They exist exactly as we exist, meaningless, but wi' th' distinct advantage o' nay bein' burdened wi' th' horrible cripplin' dire need t' create meanin' fer they's self. They don’t struggle fer a bucketfull o' voyages t' understand th' importance o' the'r bein', they don’t pine away at a job an' waste the'r voyages, they jus' glow unsuspectin' until one tide they burst an' slowly fade t' a stellar cinder, scatterin' a tattered streamer o' star dust across th' graveyard o' space.

1559 c/o David Peak

MDLIX: Children of God

From the sky: giant steeds, a cracking thunderhead billowing beneath their hooves — straddled by giant skull-faced men, buried in cloaks the color of smoke — blooming starless night in their wake. The bringers of that-which-must-be. For all, eventually. Terror. Disaster. Death.



Hundreds of gentle Christ’s soldiers dead, their bodies strewn about, bundled in black and brown, face-down in the thick glop of the shoreline, the shimmering waters — metallic overcast sheen — like so many misplaced angels, eternally earthbound with wings clipped of flight.



The soft and lost voice of Icarus muffled in the hurricane’s wind — the boom of the horse’s hooves.



Once grandiose — a giant — cannons powder-primed, the Spanish galleon submerged first — sucked into the swirl of the wind-whipped waters, its bloated hull snapping like some ancient tree felled by dry rot, by the blades of the doers of the devil’s deeds. It cracked and nosed into the whirling black abyss of fables, of sea-monster lore.



The other four ships, Caravels, lightly tossed about until the winds grew bored, sails torn like tissue, they followed their mother into the depths with something only remotely resembling reluctance.



When the winds died down and the skull-faced men rode off into the sky, to hide behind that cowardly gray sun, the men and women who survived, some washed ashore, beaten, nearly drowned, others emerging from the ruins of their humanly constructs, they sat on the soft ground and watched the waters quiet.



The colony would be moved, they said—they agreed. They would begin again. Pensacola would be a name that remained on the maps of future generations, for future children. No, they said, it would not be erased so easily. Not by such a darkness, by such hatred.



Like so much of the earth’s shed refuse, they spun away from their center, that thing which history has taught us does not hold, leaving that coastline behind. And though they did not know it, could not say for sure, they felt those unblinking, watchful eyes up above. And their footprints sank into the soft ground, an easy trail for their demons to follow, an atlas of so much sorrow.

1558 c/o David Smith

Dix Petits Regrets D'un Garcon Devenant Homme

I’m getting married tomorrow (une).

Woah.

Saying it out loud makes it seem more and less real. I am becoming more and less real (deux).

I’m n-n-not nervous, as such. When we met it was as if we’d never been a day apart from each other. I’m well prepared. Yes, I’ve been preparing all my life for this (trois).

However, Mary’s… hot. She’s not a conventional beauty, no. Buxom, a heaving bosom, moist- and pink-lipped, auburn in her hair that sh-sh-shouldn’t by rights make my stomach swill with the unsolicited chill waters of love. I’m a short-arsed virgin who can’t speak Scots yet (quatre). I asked my friend Jacques how best to finger someone. He said that you can use your thumb at the top and your middle finger inside for maximum effect. I’ve been practising on a silk coussin every day for the last two weeks (cinq).

You haven’t seen my outfit yet, but you will, maybe in pictures. I’ll be in more froufrou than Mary (six). I know Jacques will laugh so I’ve asked him not to come. He’s probably my best friend; I’ll miss him when I move to Scotland. I don’t think the climate will suit me, sickly wee thing that I am. Too late to do anything about it now (sept).

My ear’s playing up again. I hope it’ll be ok tomorrow. Mother will be tearful. It means so much more to her that the day goes well (huit).

Y’know, Notre Dame is pretty in April, and I like the small boats on the Seine that appear for weddings, each carrying a hill of wild flowers whose loose petals overflow into the water.

Jacques and I are out tonight for my stag. We’ll probably get trashed on cider, as usual (neuf).

Technically I will become a man tomorrow (dix). I hope my balls drop during my last sleep in single-ville.

Et vu tant de regrets desquels je me lamente,
Tu t'ébahis souvent comment chanter je puis.

I sing despite all my deplorable regrets. Isn’t that amazing? I knew you’d think so.

I’m getting married tomorrow.

1557 c/o J. Post

identity relations

sight = touch = water = sweet
access = excess
value = image = possibly = never
arms = apple
window = thought = elephant = dog
administration = bed = curl = music
tender = this = time = rendered
empty = connections
are the same as = comparatively
learned = much from = parallel
parallels = more
than = asserted

1556 c/o David Fishkind

Forehead

When I wake up you are already moving around, and I feel the same. Your sister walks to me and asks how I am. I nod and move around to show that I’m okay. I move my arms wildly. There are a lot of things I think about saying, but I stay silent. The air is colder than usual, which surprises me. I am wearing fewer clothes than before, and I can feel the morning air touching my face and chest.

You are talking quickly and seriously, and I’m not sure if it is directed at your sister or me. I ask if anyone else is around. Your sister and you look at me. I cannot help but grin a little.

My hair is longer than it had been, and I think about the ground. Where the ground could have gone. Anywhere, I guess.

The word recycling comes to mind a lot throughout the day. We are walking.

You speak in a strange voice to your sister. I never remember you speaking in that voice before.

I often stop to look around. I like to touch the people’s foreheads. But I ignore the ones that speak to us. You try to conceal signs of sympathy. Your sister averts her eyes a lot. In the sky, dust moves around slowly in great masses—it looks like birds migrating a little. I think about my mother.

Thoughts seem transient. I picture the insides of an animal, my penis hardening and softening rapidly, your breasts.

We are thirsty and drink from something. It tastes awful and delicious at the same time. I know what my mouth must look like right now. I notice your arm. It still looks bad, but I am grinning and I can’t stop and I want to throw my body around your body. Your sister tells me to close my mouth, and I do.

We go to sleep and wake up. We do this several times. I lose track. We walk. Houses are crushed a little. Animals with their bodies in positions. There are less people trying to talk now.

There is the rift valley. We look down in it. Your sister touches my leg. I imagine pushing her in. I spit and say something. You move away quickly, possibly crying.

At night I want to hold you. I try to get close to you. No matter how close I get to you it seems impossible to touch you. I reach out my hand to touch you and you are too far away. I move closer. I extend my arms. I am directly behind you. Our atoms might be pushing
together. But you are out of reach.

I can’t be sure about how things happen. I become ill. Your sister brings me things. We don’t move. There are some fires. I drink something. I don’t want to talk. Time passes. I get better. We walk more. Further. At nights you watch me. You won’t touch my hand. I cannot move it anyway. Eventually I am better. I want to ask you how many days I set us back. I wonder how we are alive, or what we are eating. You say we are close. I say we are not. You say you don’t know. You don’t look serious for a moment—you look weak. We sleep.

In the morning your sister walks off to look for something. You lie still, and I can see that you are awake. Your face is hardened, mangled, broken, and I cannot stop thinking about what your teeth must look like or me and my face, with my bones all open and my intestines spilling out across the ground, and the foreheads of the people surround my peripheral vision and weigh me down with their sweat, their heaving grace. I touch your leg. It is softer than it ever was. And you come to me. I keep my eyes open to see that it is real and immediately wake up.