postamble in which the nature of archive is challenged and tangentially novel

we shouldn't be here, this isn't a safe space for the present

 

it's about the past

 

things that have been and once were and long buried

 

days of innocence and safety

 

when love could be abstracted from the mud and hung on laundry lines

 

where's a safe space for the present

 

we're about archives here, records preserved as evidence that we existed as something else before the present when we exist as we are or rather as an accumulation of having been that exceeds that having been before, an attempt to reach beyond the present to sign spaces closer to origins

 

but you're not archives, you're patahives, and the affix transmutation effects time into shapes that disquiet past and future

 

that may be but whatever we are or might be accused of, we're not the present

 

the present's all there is

 

that's a philosophical cliche, if anything doesn't exist it's the present - god's far more likely to exist than the present

 

so we all fit, in the patahive everything's an archive

 

the inmate's journal claimed to be written in the past and be about the past but actually it's in the future

 

and we who claim to be in the present don't know where we are

 

but why is time a place to be, that's what patahive's asking

 

can you be late for time

 

as late as for being

 

but it's a pragmatic taxonomic focal and convenient necessity

 

kali's about pooetry, ooQ autobiothanatohagiowapübelography, drdrdrdrdrdrdrdrdr dao and film, jooQ surpassing pawukon, elspet academic lechery, fukky gek poh intervoos and we're about digging up documents from the doopast

 

if we lose our focus the others may repurpose us

 

or worse

 

what's wrong with repurposing or worse

 

they might be listening

 

who

 

the gov

 

why would gov care about any of this

 

gov wants to know everything

 

i don't see at all how this is a postamble to the inmate's journal

 

you just want to be macedonio in a mirror

 

i am macedonio in a mirror

 

gov is in the mirror

 

the only thing not in the mirror's the present

 

we can include anything

 

the inmate's journal has broken free from the cell of definition into the expanse of the postamble

 

we're not archivists

 

we're not archaeologists

 

we're not dredgers of time

 

this is just the bank put through the prism of bankruptcy

 

this is just the church after it's been in the dump until it's turned to rancid pulp

 

this is just the academy brewed until it's sludge

 

this is just the future after it's been fucked

 

these are the records of the desert of the institutions

 

skyscrapers collapsed

 

temple razed

 

lectern crushed

 

time defecated

 

love puked

 

when the institution dies - anarchy

 

once you achieve freedom - the greatest bondage

 

so there are no rules for the thirteen

 

we are a coven of mutability

 

we are witches of whatever

 

we cut off our gonads as the supreme act of love

 

our gonads are reason

 

and love's a disaster

 

the disaster of heaven

 

are there going to be more postambles

 

we amble forever and affixes are just signs that wink

 

no sign like the present

 

no present like an empty box

 

no empty box like a lost ambulance

 

no lost ambulance like a cordial

 

no cordial like absinthe

 

no absinthe like a fond heart

 

this isn't reality anymore though

 

no it's patareality

 

the inmate's journal was the last record of reality

 

and reality like time's no more

 

we go mad like prepositions

 

and are propositioned by the absent

 

by ghosts and logic and the ledgers of the day

 

walk the bridge from here to here

 

we make sandcakes in the atacama desert

 

we perform marriages for scorpions

 

we're demoted through demonscapes of dreams

 

under a sky stuffed with rotten moons

 

how romantic

 

how maudlin

 

how tired

 

how over

 

this is our novel and we can do what we want with it and it's never done