Zero or Twenty-Two

“Precisely.”  Her voice was rich with the pleasure the question gave her. “In that contradiction will reside the appeal of this new belief.”  -The Chatelaine Thecla

Falling, my last consciousness stepping over the hopeless scarp was the acerbic scent of almond blossom and sweet savor of the hecatomb rising. So now someone else can whisper a secret:  I will be the agent of my own apotheosis.

How?  I will create a god whom I hate.  I will create a god who doesn’t even know I exist.  Nevertheless, first I must build an altar.

It will be a rack.  This is the perfect place to sleep stretched, secured to your soul anesthetic while ligaments snap.

(A scream is descending to a hiss sixty-six octaves below middle C.)

Hear me out.  The tools of excruciation have an august history as symbols of absurdity. Crucifixus est dei filius; non pudet, quia pudendum est.  The name of the bow is life, indeed.

My brahmins will be abacomancers practicing their sacrosanct arts, dancing in circles on abyssal dusts, held by the device’s tabernacular gravity.  My vestals, winter trees – obscene fractal harlots deeply-rooted sucking nothingness – hiding terror under their verdant robes come spring.  Have you ever really looked at winter trees?  I know something you don’t.

(Not flutes. Drums. All oxygen being extracted.)

Come down.  Inspect the frame of the shrine; what are those carvings that wind and wend?  Seven swords of Spanish steel.  A fox struggling for air.  A failed and helpless egg hunt.  A necessarily fictional autobiography. Secrets sold for free. And words… “Hesperus is Phosphorus.”

You are the engine of a horrific equilibrium and you speak to me in infrared.  But soon, soon you will ignite and I will stand again and be immolated – and reflected – in your glorious theophany.

But you will never know, will you?