One of them, however, kept a loaded gun, and when a Delaware tribesman walked over a rise, he shot him in the forehead. The pacifists banished him forever, and that is history. We do the best we can to keep from being erased. But time and the moment wear us down. We are here and gone, a flicker on the screen brilliantly remembered.
Pure form is finally shapeless, or words to that effect.
In an age of private jargon, one can always make the dead zebra stand. At century's dead end or walking into stars, what was done to us was done with our consent and shines more fiercely than we are allowed to remember. In the entry to that place, a beaded purse from Oklahoma is ripped from fragile hands. The rumpled tenor blinks. The sign says EAT - blue neon juice in a flat black dark where shadows shine and hurt.