F a s t e r, F a s t e r
by Stephanie Balzer
I read that time passes through people though people believe they are passing through time. Those who are melancholy write from memory but those who are happy, imagination. All surrealists are happy. An MRI can detect if you are madly in love and freshly rejected, the blood nourishing the obsessive-compulsive brain. An MRI can detect if you’re a surrealist. The door handle of your truck, locked: the penny taped to your window, still: the light in your bedroom window, late. Television is a writer’s medium, film a director’s. David Chase thinks The Sopranos is a failure and Norman Mailer the closest thing to the great American novel of today. Beloveds, we live in an age of diminished returns and empathize with Tony’s malaise. “I watch all this fighting, you know,” Sommer emailed, “and these fighters work their asses off. they say things like ‘if you want it you can get it’ as if that is utter truth.” Mike said he’s not going for happiness anymore, only contentment. I heard that attorneys tell illegal immigrants not to drive or even get in cars in case they’re stopped for traffic violations and deported. Barbara said it’s like we’re all ex-patriots now living in our own country. Those with the least power hold access to the purest truth—sounds like Jesus but I’m paraphrasing Bill Moyers. I confess: my state of mind is America. “something to do w entropy, i think. the force of nothingness so much stronger than its opposite.”
5.5 x 7 hand-sewn chapbook printed on high quality paper with vellum insert and stamped cover. Printed in a limited edition of 100.
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