From The 144 Rooms

Jeremy P. Bushnell

Run run run run.  Polygonal forms emerge from wasp-wall; rotate and click, rhapsodize, sundering, each sun fouled with fashion.  Harlon’s domino mask edged and wild: into the picture it fits, commandeered.  Around this time language was dead, and so the ashen forms began the long crawl up from the lower levels.  Take this letter, they say, deliver it.  Open the center of finned compartments.  Operate numerologically.  A kind of math for the diversion of urgencies.  So on that evening Gloria arranged the wreaths, sefiroth, ten in all, in the configuration she’d learned from the manuals she’d pilfered from the hospital basement, labeled To Trap.  Danger as the definition of danger.  Splicing words to cut white cancer faces free.  Free of mask and makeup.  Fire in the order, burning room of letters, all ghost cash circulates once the fingerprints in the files obliterate.  Such is the plan of performae and order.  Adolf’s account flickers and fills, the squalls countered by sign of peg and pestle.  Turbulent office, seventeen monitors all point to words, no choice at all but to flee.  Destruction will hold once Escape Plan activates.  Franklin reads aloud from monitor image in the Wittgenstein Room, each bit of chattered language allotted to telegraph mode.  The mail is an organism, a kind of social body, to write (pin-point) is to infect through vulnerable opening.  A kind of sensitive tissue—Felix has the correspondence readings, knowing it possible to locate stereoscopic gap and enter.  To ravish, as in Gloria’s diagram.  Wreaths fry in orange hue.  Perception bifurcates, the work is violent but the room shuts.  Unreadable taupe over everything, from rabbit-eye to stuttered voice, resealed by tape.