An Exceedingly Brief Exile

My socksoft and hesitant footsteps are deliberate and with each planting a new vista of the city is desaturating, leaning on Nadia crushing a bloody nit between her nails in the dark end of the hallway alone, in tedium the folks are sucking smooth stones, whispering in the narrow stairs. The cubic building in polymer stuccorendering festooning and bunting and medallions, an enormous trompeloeil keystone in tearose atop two faux taupe granite tetrahedonal acones, the parameters of my exile with the requirement of visiting, we are munching some dandelion greens from a collection Nadia is amassing in her dresspocket, the foamy cube is great and ambiguous with seeming entasis on its edges insisting the ornament gagging facade forward over us within its shade, flat black windows in the concealment of patterning and ornament are stacking dozens of storeys, cladwood siding—particles of planer shavings and wastewood and newsprint in bondage of wax and resin with fibrous jacketing—prone to disintegration with exposure to moisture, on a tackboard within a nichesurround of styrofoam moulding the waitlist for one of the few covetously in the construction of an overly spacious grid including the is ponderous and generally a distant residential possibility for those not in direct service to its semipublic entities, the entry foyer of the «Municipal Center» is conversely a tiny deadend navel full of lint and a relentless applique of lozenges and heptagrams of various rouges across walls and ceiling and floor, we are waiting, we are not alone, the heatwave in the airless room is austere is oppressive, delirium, in the mustardy geometric applique is material joinery in nonconformance with the patterning, a panel is opening into the foyer under its own propulsion and Nadia is taking my hand through the passage, I am taking Nadia's hand wandering empty hallway boulevards with metal doors, in the tedium of waiting in the queue stallingly loping Nadia is leafing through the waitlist out of fatalistic curiosity about our location in the roster and is returning with dejection.

The dwelling superscriptions are specific down to the geographic corner of rooms and rooms have numbers in sequence through each building either in the order they are accessible after the front door or beginning in a circular motion to the left and spiraling inward—although the only space that is not obstructive to the function of the room is beneath an austere kitchen table standing in the center of the room—10-122 Prospect 03.X where «ex» is the designation of a room's center, the sage green house across from the vacant plat serving as a waystation for the migration of certain dark and regal butterflies,

only one folkle is queuing into the foyer is pulling shut the black glass door, a long corridor with no doors is leading to an elevator without callbuttons or floor selectors is opening with our proximity, blackdots of people flitting at the far ends of corridors, transoms over the metal doors are mruky with texture of pyramids capturing inner dark and hallway glaring, blackdots crossing through intersections, a distant transom is dark is luminous, the rectangular judas is ajar allowing crisply cold exsufflation.

The lefthand door on our side of the desk is swinging inward on mysterious silent and prompt propulsion, with burgeoning understanding of the geography from many orientations the peeking above the skyline Cherdyn «Municipal Center» of the ADA—ADAemone colloquially, those of us living and living and living are wondering which is worse between endless deferral in the byzantine bureaucratic ADA hierarchy or unyielding abstraction in the intellectual cult of the Daemonic congress, though how different are hanging and decapitation—is relatively near the hospital, the distances from the top floor I am singling out my hospital room window with the red triangle half missing, Nadia deftly maneuvering the joystick through the fluid lace of omnidirectional tracks with only the most instinctual geographic sensibility, the breeze of movement of consciousness and living with this strange city in passage closing my eyes to the breeze rifling in my billowing open the ruinous dressshirt I am everywhere, unreasonable unendurable exhaustion, people living everywhere for various reasons, the rhythmic action of the walkingbeam and the two men in silence, brighter skylight is whiting out through higher tree spires where the viol the violet and the vine entwining the verve of valleys and towers and domes of dull dirt and loose rocks are slipping and tumbling clicking over one another in our stumbling up to the frenzying of carrion birds, clouds clouds and clouds,

the lessee payment for the negative space under the kitchen table is 1,84ƫ—payable to the municipal authorities of Cherdyn—of which «the „Geezer“» is collecting less than 0,36ƫ if anything, fantasies of the stillness of the apartment click engagement rotation leverpump resting click engagement creaking rotation leverpump bloodrush silence click engagement thin whispy hair blowing resting bright white leverpump coasting through cool air freewheeling click engagement—over asphalt swath traversing derelict sidewalks buildings far from each other and flat in affect into the invariably winding foothill avenues on the valley walls spotty with dodgy dingy residences, the house is tenuous in its hermeticism and differential pressures are draughty sucking in hot air and sequestering it with foul breath and the effluvia wall cavities, the sundry vulturepickings of Anna's feet on my tongue, overcoats and trenchcoats and jackets limp on pegs beside the front door, mold spores on the air clinging to bulbous mist beadlets implanting in wall cavities and impregnating lowquality sheetrock of such porosity blooming with blackness neath painting and painting and painting,

in rapturous exhaustion Nadia and I lying together hard on the bare linoleum, no configuration of my body is bearable on the floor in thick sleep arriving upon concentricwaves of pain from my shoulder is darkening the persistent coldness of the overhead light with pulsations pricklingly visible and in the fine nerves along my hairline spreading a torpid blanket, there is no thread matching the stitchery in my ruinous shirt,

mruky vapor simmering off of the riverflow is lending a light convection to the street air less oppressive stagnant than the stifling house and the shuffling boots across the kitchen linoleum out into the avenues and adhoc circuit of the neighborhood and into the unbuildable areas rising up.

You are Studying Psychology are You Not — · — No, I am Studying Industrial and Organizational Psychology — · — Right, Then Certainly This Knowledge is Easily Accessible, What Is The Proper Terminology For A Woman—Or Just A Person Rather—Who Has A Commitment To Pushing The Buttons Of Those Around Them, Or Just Some Of Those Very Near To Them — · — I Don't Have That Knowledge — It is Madness Though Is It Not — · —  Yes. — · — It's Dyscrasia — · — No, That Isn't Sounding Correct, Schizotypal is Something — · — Yes — · — Do They Believe In Magic — I am Not Certain — · —  I Really Am More Knowledgeable About Hierarchical Concentricwaves Of Pain —

a rectangular prism in concrete with inversion of its vertical edges and railings along its top edges with brackets chamferingly at the vertices, taut double thread is caressing its own length against the coming together puckering shirt fabric, the autoparks, the roofless boxes the negligent lawns the baking rhizomes the shady shadows are nearly forests and sylvan in all of their features—leaflitter, loam, umbrage and gentle moss of windfall and the scattering of trunkpulp—while splitting the asphalt and strange intraswath subductions and uplifting slopes of tumbledown asphalt eruptions of granules and greater stones and rocks, on the walking portion of the interminable trek to the Municipal Center I am searching among the rocks, clambering up a dewy nettleslope toward a deceptively happenstance cairn against a windfall logdam, weedtree bosks in laciness of omnidirectional pumpcar track, at a stopblock in the forest the queue for a pumpcar is very long in the wavering umbrage, in leaflitter in umbrage I am resting my palm atop the ashplant my free hand in the slashpocket of my thin jacket beside a rubble wall with the warm steelmuzzle on the downy hammock of skin from inion to cervical vertebra capital, the rhythm of all Cherdyn appointments with the commandant is cycling together, folks are sitting oncollapsible tripods with binders and columns of paper on their laps, partners are collecting nettles or the odd mushroom and children are playing among the rocks arranging their pale figures against the black pavement doodling in idleness, Nadia is holding our place in line with the totebag full of my documentation, with difficulty climbing an asphaltic hillock and down into a dale funneling dew into a ravine to a silent oilsheen creeklet is fluming along a long smooth ash limb suitable for a walkingstick or wand for surveyal, dry black flecks of blood are shaking loose from Nadia's short hair, rubber weedtree trunks are bending but not breaking, my pride and adoration are tingling with Nadia's confidence her deft fingers are guiding us through the forest with the, our small nameless group is walking, waiting on the second leg of transit, the tearose cornice of the «Municipal Center» stucco is visible over the facade across the road from our queue, leaving my ashplant beside a group of six wary men with bowls of water at their feet are leaning into the gritty scratchcoat of a crumbling masonry wall leaning threateningly over them, we are shuffling across a road running away on axis with the foyer of the «Municipal Center» beyond strata of downstream queueings filing past dormant autos across the road, two doors are opening in the foyer, — Remain Standing — faux marquetry spalling on the floor and territories so barren are revealing the joints of hidden doors, the «Commandant» is sitting at a desk with a thin sheaf of loose papers breathing at the far corner with the slight draughtiness of the far doors—fewer in number than my recollection but more than necessary—, he is looking only at Nadia is gazing her knees where one hand is lacing over mine—the other hand further from me is scratching her scalp absently—, — Come Back Tomorrow —

melodious humming in sonic quantification of reactionary movement on the space between movements of air through the city, we are rolling dandelion leaves around dandelion stems dripping with mustard from small pouches, breathy racing away siren sounding over the whole of the valley from one direction then another although not moving sources only the breezes are gently fluctuating—manifolds of tree canopies are actuating—a man and women in thin overcoats are carrying large smooth stones, bitterness of the largest fronds and grit in the teeth, stones are clicking together dead clanging, a pod of pensioners with stones are napping under the canopies of a Daemonic natural preservation, the asphalt is in plates adrift on dusty soil radiating from a concrete basin full of windfall, the clicking of river water, the perfect shape and proportion of stone is perfectly crosssectional with the void under the neck for assistance with sidesleeping, speaking as they are drifting into simmering sleep — I am Afraid You Must be Saying Goodbye To Tobacco — · — I am Quite Done For, The Only Luxury I am Leaving Of My Former Magnificence is Tobacco — · — You Must Additionally be Saying Goodbye To Vodka — · — I am Drinking Four Liters On A Good Afternoon — · — I am Having Suspicions You are In The Spirit World Yourself — · — I am Not Quite Summoning A Recollection, My Belief is Yes, I am Not Remembering A Thing, Only «whispering» A Daemon Giving A Speech As We Are Lying There Dying Of Alcohol's Merciful Suffocation, He is Weeping — I am Living The Life Of An — as they are drifting into simmering sleep, Nadia—a secret consciousness independent from me—is asking about for a sheet or towel, a thin layer of gentle warmth across the asphalt soft and pliable is folding over the slumberers and their totebags are tumbling over spilling more stones and nettles and a crusty sausage half,

Would You Like Some Vodka — · — My Stomach is Saying I Shouldn't But Thankfully I am Familiar With The Feeling — · — Your Stomach is Upset, are We Upsetting You — · — No, It is The Vodka — · — You are Drinking A Great Deal Of Vodka — · — Water Please — · — As You are Writing This Article are You Targeting Any Other — · — No. I am Thinking The Idea Of Fealty is Making Us Desperate, Seeing Ourselves Animalistic and Hideous, Needing A Benevolent Parent, Making Us Acknowledge The Fact We Are Dependent And Eating Us Gradually — · — What are You Doing — · — I'm Uncertain — · — Avoiding Conversational Interplay is Especially Important, It is Softening You, But You are Adding What is Relevant, Yes Or No, Anything Beyond That is Dangerous, You are Not Softening, You are Not Flowing, They are Lying To You, They are Lying For Confusion, But They are Also Mixing Untruths With The Truth In Prying You Away From Yourself, Attacking You Psychologically, So Don't Listen, Remember, Do Not Listen, Only Hear — · — Yes, Of Course — · — Just Yes — · — Yes — · — So That I am Gaining A Better Understanding, You Are Writing This Article And Submitting It Straight To The «the „Editor“» — · — Yes and They are Seeming Happy With It — · — Just Yes — · — Yes — · — They are Happy Because You are Delivering A Public Servant Up For Ridicule — It is Possible To Build A Case Against Any Man, You Needn't be Guilty Of Anything, The Suspect is Easily Finding Their Way Into Entanglement In The Web Of Ingenuius Constructions — · — So — · — So You are Silent — and I am silent in the audibleness of conversations occurring throughout the house in tiers of volume, trekking through gauzy glare and sunburn by pumpcar, — is «the „Editor“» Calling You — · — Nobody is Calling Me, I am Not Hearing From Anyone Only A Veritable Autobus — · — From Whom — I am Not Recognizing Any Of The Names, I am Suspicious Of Guidance, I am Striving For Internal Congruency, Wholeness, I am Not Oppositional To Defending My Decisions, Not Simply Because Someone is Needing Bureaucratic Fulfillment, I am Not Desirous Of Rote Interaction — · — So You are Writing This Article For The Satisfaction Of Your Own — · — Nadia — · — What About The Poem — · — Nadia — · — You Are Finding Enjoyment In The Audience are You Not — · — No — What Awareness are You Bringing With Your Labors — & — Absolutely None, I am Only Desirous Of Working — · —How Are You Placing Yourself In The Mindset Of One Practice Or The Other — · — I am knowledgeable About The World, My Rearing is In This Thinking, I am Confident Even If The Landscape Is Slightly Different, Sensibility is Recursive, Urges and Proclivities are Resurfacing — Nadia is sucking stones I am sucking bones against my teeth, mizu, annaffiare, clicking the transcription of Annagrams, Tetragrammaton of her swimming, aqua, vody — are You Reading Over Your Own Works With Any Rigorous Repetition — · — No — · — Why Not — · — This is, Knowing This, I am Not Responsive — · — I am Not Reading Anyone — · — Because You are Busy — · — I am Not Responsive — · — Poems — · — I am Not Reading Anyone — · — You are Losing Ground Then — · — I Don't Really, I am Not Really Considerate Of The Culture, I Have A Preference For My Own Things, My Journalistic Prose Is The Most Spiritually Combative — · — Elaboration On That — · — No — incessant whisperingly hidden implicit bargains,

eating fermentuous leek paste from a spatula and scanning the shade below the table at asleep Nadia's ankles beneath the rolldown of her short stockings, lime and aromatic mildew at the end of the dormant cave crawling bellydown in damp one way forward no way back with an entire queue is pulling at the shoes in front of them into the tapering throat into the pencilpoint with outstretching hands into the terminus of the passage those in the rear or depths. The narrow flattener are chimneying out of the entrapment although those in the restrains of the terminus are awaiting—, hot sweat sheen in the breeze is not comforting is not cooling, there is no thread matching the stitchery of my jacket,

methodically laying over the iceblue fabric gauging the diminishment or enhancement of its impact as a slender inscription, delicate embodiment of the river, Nadia with the selection of scarlet thread and doubling it through the silver needle — This Woman is The Death Of Me, Not In Torment But In Negligence And Silence, Somebody Please Talk To Me, I Can't Escape Silence, She has Everyone Silent With Radiation From That Paralytic Closet — shuffling into the room to repair something or clean something, he is sitting in a chair in the window, I am feeling smart and alert in my jacket,

my summary execution is astride Anna's cairn over a shallow excision of rectangular earth, he is climbing a ladder up the outside of the house to wrench leaves from the mouth downspout is liberating fetid tea out across the splashblock and slowing silty in a translucent sienna reservoir on the concrete, the action of the pumpcar, strong bodies and wide shoulders a man and a woman are pumping the walkingbeam, my eyes and the evaporative cooling of the breeze weaving a path occupying all possibilities of sad Cherdyn in a fine fabric shutting my eyes into all places with the mutable breeze deflecting off of the concrete «massives» faintly edgewise with cabbage is soaking in tart mustard beside the sad little bookshelf in the apartment, a childish bookshelf, relentless applique of lozenges and heptagrams of various rouges across walls and ceiling and floor, dust, we are waiting, we are not alone, the heatwave in the airless room is austere is oppressive, delirium, in the mruky geometric applique a panel is opening into the foyer under its own propulsion I am walking alone through the passage to a waiting ajar elevator door closing behind me hydraulically groaning beneath the cab the pressure of air pushing from above to below is seeping through the eggcrate ceiling,

the empty corridors of the «Municipal Center» are dark and silent with filtration of soft skylight—auroral—through the pyramidal glass texture is wafting pale with hallucinatory peach, each arrangement of stones—badges, tetractys of the decad, runic rough breathing, cantabrian, certifications, heraldry, consumptive blazons, crossings and elder signatures, all manners of complex and hermetic veves, diacritical pebbles, graphemes, logical connectives—contradictory or tautological or implicatory or negatory—lozenges, existential quantifications, branching vectors, nazars, magic circles of stones are forming enclosures around bosks of weedtrees, checkerboards, penatcles, rosicrucian geometries, «„Landolt“ Cees», circles of stones around cobblings of small empty vessels, infantile optotypes—apples or homes or windows or circles—long meticulous pairs of parallel lines, the triangles of earth and air and water and fire, the anthropomorphic pyramid of sulfur, the cat penis of sulfur, personal cosmograms, the spermatozoan digestion of «Leo», the mutual oral stimulation of cancerous dissolution, the upright cairn of globus cruciger—is an encryption of discreet loneliness,

a faraway door is ajar with daylight suspension into the dark corridor seemingly pulsating with my approaching footsteps, the queue is halting and stuttering, the windowless room is empty and dim with the luminance at the sill of a door behind the desk and murmuring through the steel, spitting out witherings of nettle stems for placing her bones in my mouth, I am sitting alone in the possible daylight glowing swelling in the room, the riverbank is a concrete surface visibly beneath the crepe surface, cairns of mossy stones near the water promising tolerable stools in a tableau otherwise recondite in ghoulish desertion by obscurant ruinous warehouses and small dockcranes, the insufferable pungency of fishy floaters, intuitional stone markings by the quarry of the velvet afternoon of adolescent ennui, a man is collecting the corpses of riverine fauna with a long bident, it is beside the river a melody unfurling without sound in the codification of persistent savourings of decay are drawing my ashplant to the relics of Anna's granoblastic bones nonfoliate among the rocks, sorting through the rocks for those calciferous relicts responsible for the humming and pocketing them in particular for sucking stones, a tiny bone from Anna's foot on my tongue is tumbling against my teeth widening I am rolling the bespoke surfaces against the inside of my lips and wet flesh of my cheeks,

I am folding it over my forearm, — I Don't Know, What Do You Want To Do — I am decrepit and adrift, uncertain about the attendance and the rhythm of visitations ascramble, taking the seam between her thumb and pointerfinger and kneadingly across its length rubbing the velvet oiliness of her whorls into the thread Nadia is unifying her remediation of the jacketsleeve with the tension of its injury, Nadia is confirming our dwelling superscription in the kitchen—our conversation simplistic in the embodiment of prerequisite reflectivity between two strangers or even very close acquaintances which we are not—with «D» lolling beneath the table is reproducing Nadia's sleeping posture and her warmth and the woolen moisture of her respiration, Nadia is tucking a letter in a long envelope into her thin trenchsweater, I am feigning slumber squinting at her ankles receding, haze is condensing on my high hairline, oscillations of honor and shame over my fortune of private interment in the acrid aroma of tannery leather and brainmatter I am tasting blood in the eruption of sinuses funneling dark pulpiness into soft gravesoil against my gasping tongue,

«Naderi „of the Caves“» and «the „Arests“» are coming in the back door rollicking leaflitter shaking loose from their bootsoles toward the creaking of stairs audible only to Nadia and myself with our ears pressing the linoleum membrane pantomiming sleep—an exceptionally useful talent second only to unbreaking silence—across the joists and woodframing bootsoles descending the stairs toward the young men winding their way through the clutter and hot day dim, a bedsheet partition is billowing in the corner — Who are You Addressing  — · — I Have Knowledge Of My Own Devotion, And I Have My Inroad To The Adamin, I Have A Belief It is Incredibly Interesting Coming From Me —

folks in resettlement shuffling diligently doublechecking the schema of their dwelling superscription against each other and squinting with delineations of the layout of their dwellings in the air with their fingers, the hopefulness of the persistent hair low on my forehead Nadia is plucking out, — I am Not Fooling Myself, Resurrecting A Corpse is Impossible, Restoration Of This House is Impossible, The Essence Of Its Formation is Persistent But Not Flowing Through My Hands, Each Application Of My Hands is Begetting A New House, A New Spirit, Resurrecting The Corpses Of The Original Laborers is Impossible, The Voices Of Their Rotten Hands Have No Instructions For My Own — Nadia and I are gathering my paperwork and accompanying in the totebag a collection of dandelion greens and small mushrooms from the yard for a picnic, passing beneath the ubiquitous extension ladder — And Copying, That is Palpably Impossible, What Copying is Possible Of Surfaces Whose Outer Dozen Millimeters are Absent, The Entirety Of The Building's Identity Is In That Absence, Our Imposition is Conjectural, If I Have The Ability Of Copying Or Representing What is Absent, is It Better This Decrepit In Which There is Some Expression Of Vitality, A Mysterious Echoing Of Its Loss With Harmony In The Gentle Contours Of Erosion — on a slender breeze through the window in the upstairs room harassing invasive saplings and fiddleheads growing from mudclods on the concrete, somber folks are carrying stones across the plaza to the «Municipal Center» although the queue is nonexistent, very close to the elevator a door is hanging ajar inward allowing an obtuse trapezium of gloss across the vinyl tile floor, statistically insignificant concentrations of tearose and taupe refractions hang in the pale outdoor air, Nadia is clutching my hand in the silence, into the onepoint distance is stretching a sluice of dim and dully crystalline transoms, I am noticing the walls scant between the surplus of doorways are of a grain that is more fine than the perception of the human eye is capable of perceiving, I am perceiving the granular structure of the wall surface, equilibrious limpid clarity—that within daylight, that through water, that only accreting in the especial compression of great distances—the medium of this room—an ogee vault of boilingly abrasive and obscure moss green—pristine yet dull—wool over the cartography of settlement plattings—abstractions of topographic relief in unbroken loops not parallel but avoiding intersections in sage green, cities and townships in natural black inkspills, concentric red circles—with kilometric radii from citycenters and towncenters legible on implicit rays out from their black originations—are wheeling weaving annuli disintegrating into crescent lunes, asymmetrical gibbous lenses, «vesicae piscis», myriad associations of circular triangles, assumptions of triquetrae and attendant «Reuleaux triangles», convex circular polygons of gradual obliquity within intersections of two or more annular families, strange elongations of concave circular polygons within intersections of two or more annular families—on a greatsheet of onionskin pinprickingly lacy and diaphanous—on the broad desksurface with hemlines reaching to the flanking walls — Abidance — paging deliberately through a dossier his finger on a short paragraph containing no numbers is compelling him to place the needlepoint of a pair of matte steel dividers at a particular intersection of two red circles and whitefingeringly clutching the handle is exploring the implications of the resultant circle with the circumscribing needlepoint—halting at cities or towns along the way and marking them there with an adhesive dart and in an enumerative column next to the particular source paragraph in the dossier — Where are You Moving — · — I'm Not Following — A Recategorization Of Your Sentence Of Exile To «Minus 12» Is Necessitating A New District, Receipt Of A Communication On Your Behalf In Tsentergrad is Resulting In Your Status Rather Than Your Original Sentencing Status of— · — Irrelevant — breathing softly a contrasting dashdash of movement through the argent sliver of sky, gentle slickness on my skin of Nadia is relaxing her constriction of my hand mouthing a word that is not my word, «Bulgakov», each of «the Commandant's» cartographic darts is pulsing throbbing yawning open landscapes and fellowship, — These Darts are Notations Of Municipalities Commensurate With Your Recategorization — transfixion on undulation of the red circles where implicit geometries of flight are marshalling radical lines towards concurrence of a single dart in the virtual powercenter of three circles Moscow, Petrograd, Golovlyovo, «Bulgakov» only «Bulgakov» is in the sympathies of ADA hierarchs, — Although Your Recategorization is To «Nonreporting Exilee» You Do Not Have Approval Nor Chit For Entrance Through Any ADA Tollgate, Have Awareness That These Radii are Fluctuating And Wherever A Tollgate is In Establishment There is Your Geographic Prohibition, Isolation is Necessary For Your Preservation — intercession from «Bulgakov» is palliating my anxieties about Anna, — We are Moving To Sannikov — · — With Immediacy —

at the edge of the opaque «Municipal Center» shadow the ornate projection of a dull foamy moulding is lapping over the kerb, a passing auto windowfog, Nadia and I in the gutter are picnicking on mushrooms and dandelion greens, acrid bitter vitality in my temples, my tongue exploring the gills, the pumpcar is disembarking, in my jacketpocket clicking I am apportioning the stone carpals with Nadia for sucking—for her triquetrum and hamate, my tongue against the pisiform delicately into the lunate — Fear is The Gleaming Of Hopefulness —

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John Trefry