The Break

Then he stopped

dead on the sidewalk

astounded

to overhear himself

say quite distinctly

I quit,

in his own words — 

be glad you weren’t there.

Pandemonium

in the cerebral

combs, unprecedented

mass desertions, solar

flare-ups.

It said

itself

actually;

the lips moved

not, no thought was

taken. With massive finality

and apropos of absolutely

nothing it came,

a cruel blessing,

the ultimate low

note of an organ

made of ice or a passing

night train

of black holes. He

kept lying there — 

what else was he

supposed to do? — with watch

pressed to one ear, emitting

a molecular hum. (Ever wonder

how they fit a whole

hive inside one

of them?) Minute

hand starting to disappear,

such was its speed

by now; on his face

an expression

of guarded rapture.

No one could do a thing

for him now. They’d stop,

gaze down

in disgust

and concern, a moment before

they hurried on or,

without looking,

adroitly moved

around him, the way you would

dog shit. Invariably

in such cases there is a line

that no one crosses.

You know what

I’m getting at. Mainly

everyone just stands around

and waits for the arrival

of the ambulance; the mind simply stops, nothing,

silence. Then

the most silver,

the tiniest

sound

of a fracture

like that of an ice cube

dropped in vodka

can be heard

around the world;

people freeze

at whatever they’re doing, and bow

their minds, those persistent

illusions in pain,

or shame. But all

is soon forgotten,

the sunlight appears

all at once like

a great shadow

and floats with the gas-like hush

throughout the twelve spokes,

the brilliant yellow darkness

of the twelve candlelit

hallways forever

abandoned, forever

emanating out from

the one central

hexagonal chamber

so much larger than all

the rest, in which

the young queen lies

dreaming, amazed,

eyes open wide

inside

her lead-lined matchbox

rocking bed,

tits up

dead, immovable

sow, maggot

in color.