”]

“Hephaistos Knows The Ropes”

I am looking a the top of a Cadillac, he says, from a site in the rafters of the underground
parking garage where the Lord of the Lot plays solitaire, he says, in a booth whose walls are
walls indeed. No one else around from 3 to 4 a.m, the only hour that passes, but it never
passes, on the only day, of a terminal year, whose termination is postponed, interminably.
There is writing on the roof of the car. 

Though time never passes, time never returns. The words are incised in black chromium,
and as the eye traverses the letter string, the letters dissolve and return. The thought in the
sentence will neither cohere nor even for a moment leave me to be, he says, O leave the
 man to be. The cards, O the cards, O the cash drawer, O the silence of the parked sedans. 

Elegance is an edge of the criminal, he says, and the top of the car is my invocation, my
device to cause the night to open, even as it composes the enclosure wherein the only vehicle
sits without a driver, without anticipation, without its own event.

**

There is an engine whose brief it is to generate alphabets; and the language whose
presumption the letters assemble, exists; yet no decoherence into speech has ever arranged
its elements other than to tolerate the superposition of all that can ever be uttered. There, in
 the syncope of an instant, the thought that is the language entire, an ineradicable writing,
 elegant, with adequate menace and intimacy, the tracings of an old old workmanlike
devotion, in a booth beneath the void. 

It is believed that this person composes only at the behest of the other deities, but its stylus
scratches on the chromium the very sigils that compel the gods. Their ignorance of their own
nature is his only oxygen. The dazzle of his craftsmanship affords a sensation momentarily
adequate to mask his timeless sighs.

**

Wake up Bialy. It is impossible. It cannot be done. Extancy has become unavailable.
But the oblivion that owns the Cadillac will never arrive.