The Show Goes On.

Cheyenne Nimes

It’s night & the wolves have begun to circle. When the flashlight shines on something with yellow eyes, the children scream & run from the house. Drop miniature planes, precisely sculpted in stainless steel and brass. For both hands reach beneath the sky. Remembered out there in the sky. It is open 24 hours a day for people to come & pray. Most city light grids use orange sodium vapor lights that give the sky a muddy red glow as far as 50 miles away. SAC: Strategic Air Command. 200 bombers “cocked on nuclear alert” in the air 365 days a year, North they fly across the top of the world, back & forth, back & forth like a deep muscle, a dark concentric elegy. Replaces one pair of dark-tinted glasses with another. It’s not quite time. The seed needs more dark. Look at the figure below. We are sphere on a flat paper. So write your name on the line provided. There is no right word. We know who we are: Green in the satellite image below. North American map shows computer-predicted impact points. What looks like a little target. And there was never a time we didn’t know it was dangerous, never. Thousands of silver bodies eclipsing the sun, the stunned people inhabited by the sun. Sunshine colors & happy prints, the misfortunes of celebrities, all the young dudes. Deckchairs sliding on the Titanic. Our lights lacked power. I went down to look where our house used to be. Some houses were never meant to be painted. Neolithic men laid the stones in this picture at least seven thousand years ago. Stone re-creations ensured the show would go on in the afterlife. The slow angular wobble the earth maintains. These red tapering balls from the ceiling. We are everything inside of the falling. Appear as a single flash. The word light has more than forty different meanings. Translation(s) to be checked. We thought we were doing everything right.

False Prophet.

The fish had gone to hell, we all agreed. An extra eyelid veils the eye without blocking the light. Historic name now in parentheses. Almost as if it was ritually covered. But you kind of see something: the fish jump, turn in the air, become temporary mirrors for the sky. Shooting the sky, this giant slab of shining metal, the atmospheric blur, and all things after words. Why doesn’t the world look upside down? Because our minds correct the image. Trying to merge the two gods into one. Below the last of these dams—Priest Falls—something strange happens. It reads Welcome To The End Of The World. One egg-filled female, jewel-like colors, a faint parallel rainbow with the colors in reverse order. The intervening region is darker. Stared back from the darkness. Looks like twisted skin, like an umbilical cord. Screaming the same thing at the same time: You are one of us. It was easy to imagine one finger rising up to drag you in. Positioned, as in life, along a slope. The river flows in every direction, he said—north, east, south, and west—making a sign of the cross. He can be incredibly beautiful. Another face. He had the huge eyes and fierce-looking mouth characteristic of fish from the depths—which, indeed, he was. I could tell you a lot of stories but I won’t, he said. Motive, means, opportunity. I even coldly considered killing him a number of times. Whoever knows this much knows what it’s like. We were always chased away from one town to the next. Flat characters stuck in stock dramatic situations. The river was the river, we were told; there weren’t any devils in it or kings or gods. And thousands of animals are making their last stands around the world. Better say goodbye before this goes too far. But the body keeps breathing. They are like locusts. Some are so close we look right into their eyes, yet they no longer see us as objects from which to hide, or so much astral material. We are nothing new. The holy ghost shall teach you in the same hour what you ought to say. Could catch us anytime it wanted, the river seemed to say. And there’s not a thing anyone can do about it but march the animals to the river. Swim them to the other side.

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