Dengue fever, back from the retinue of memory, strikes
modern innocents: could this be a sign? A critique? Maybe
plagues are not an indictment at all, as much as reminder
of guilt as smallpox blankets or nooses in the wind. Maybe
Cronos did not eat his children out of anything but the most
animallike hunger.
Our obsessions come back to us, a vertiable jack-in-the-box,
and no creamy chocolate or capsule med can save us; their
pleasure sensation moves as swiftly to obsession as a two-toed
thief. And does sensation end? Can memory be forgotten? Once
dengue fever runs it's course, will chocolate fill the vacuum?
Who prays for the ones not hindered by memory, the forward
looking, the bird who learns not from mother but extending
eye to wing, knowing what each is for? May infinite candles
be lit, may syllables soar skyward, may creation/destruction
come with each breath, may the unhip hop and pipe organ
glories praise the rolling of is into be.
(insert prayer ending here)
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