Feb 15, 2011

Why We No Longer Commute

Written by Christopher Salerno

Read by Rose Hunter

— for Jess

It’s too easy to be the ancient Chinese poet disobeying his master. To hide, tucked inside a single bluebell on a meadow obscured by hoof prints. Right now I have done something so wrong to the oxcart that the ox refuses to move. The flattening of one thing in the cool light of dawn by someone so careful. In the paperback book you’re reading, casually by the roadside, there’s always a river. Everyone wants to float down the river in a raft, to persist and drift like a dynasty of harmless circumstances. The ancient Chinese poet will clamor to be let back into the poem, the fragrance of death tumbling over him like green feathers. If we haven’t yet felt the illusory nature of divinity, we’re definitely too late. This will be the shortest year ever. The year of the ox and oxcart, the year of green feathers, the bird in the furnace, you know what I mean.