| Excerpt
from Tilt
by Gillian McCain
Revolution
It's like this. Plot headquarters is base of operations for the dissection
of triangles, but someone has to remain Switzerland. Let it be me. Luke
and Marianne are convinced of separation at birth. I'm putting them on
hold. Am I an unreliable dramaturge? Luke conceives anti-Marianne, a babe
that has never before existed. The real Marianne takes this misreading
and runs with it, ushering in her directorial debut. Thus begins the reign
of terror. Life is reduced to footnotes on the weather. Luke becomes paralyzed
so "storming" anything fails to be an option. He realizes the
impossibility of interpreting beyond her words the simplest feelings shown
in Marianne's face, sneering or smiling. Mild precipitation casts doubt
on her heart. The muse could always rally the masses, but being at a loss
for words is such a thankless job. Why couldn't they just settle for the
same fantasy? There is no way to explain it (at least in this language).
But for all the hubris, not to mention creepy insularity, I envy them
their carelessness. Is ignorance the seed of their torment? Nah. The longest
line between two points is the least detected. The receiver dangles, still
moist.
Holes
There are many murders there, they call it Gulf. Japanese businessmen
examine the openings scientifically. Smells like it's been a long time.
Allowed their dreams, they guard against inappropriate feelings like anger
or mental molar extraction. They may touch not just look. However, to
show respect, take care to leave a little to the imagination, like a cum
sandwich. Or a restraining order on the sun. Rinse and spit. Belated attempts
to master earlier trauma, gently down the stream.
Memory
More desire came along to take its place (don't blink). She stepped off
the plane complete with instructions. She was neighborhood. I was at the
age where hitting someone meant you liked them. Don't lock yourself in
the closet, the alligator will swim beside you to the island where you
will begin your program. When strategically ripped, her mind ceased being
a little supper club. All the great passions based on distance; they promise
us that future cities will be adorned with monuments dedicated to her;
her head and nose an upside-down mortar and pestle, her beard an obelisk.
Still more to come.
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