Hit the Lights & Deep-Dish Generality

Ray Succre



Hit the Lights

Emmett sat and gyrated his feet
in the restaurant corner, was
unlit enough to seem secluded.
Recently, ingenuity had surfaced,
inkthings had occurred; he sketched.

Grey asphalt was feldspar at four.
The telephone misdial was just community at four.
The pen run dry was celebration at four,
and every minute after was involving,
until a grim scratch, a bum,
saw Emmett through the window.
The jabbering crustiness came in,
passed the seating sign, and then stood
before Emmett, saying angrily:

"You little shit, so they asked you to leave
the swim team, and you just did it. To play
the drums. The DRUMS."
"What?" Emmett asked. The scratch
flicked himself in the temple, then.
"Fuckin' dumb, brother," he said, then
abruptly left Emmett, the room, the restaurant.

"That guy's a problem." a hostess mentioned.
Emmett watched through the window,
followed as the scratch rambled off,
jabbering as he continued up the off streets,
disappearing into some outer place where
those like the scratch were always going.

Christ, Emmett thought, how did he know
about the swim team and drums?

"He comes in like that sometimes.
Thinks he's psychic. He's crazy." the hostess said.
Someone hit the lights, lit the windows.
"I could tell." Emmett responded.


He returned to his sketchbook, but the mood
had dropped far without shoes, and the diminishing
of the Sun only brought the window
further and further in.



Deep-Dish Generality

The data are built from talks, and people, and shrike against a scorched ground. The data are sent into total modes of learning— television, internet, book, recruitment, school. The data reach each FAQ and fact-sheet, games of broken telephone, trials in solubility, and some are still then dented further by the artifice of empty-bellied terminology.
  Said lacking to pay them heed,
  said slacking to ignore them,
  listen listen, said said, my
page, I leave you here at the very apex of the news on air, that you might listen to the cerrated, yet unknowable campaigns, that you might also learn, and be built, grown, tempered, and in constant waves become yet another turn in a current whose manner expresses less than it states.





Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay Publishing) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.