Tomorrow's Broadcast

(Program recorded at an earlier date): This syndication is all we have left to describe brave journies alone through minor amounts of time. With close attention you will hear a faint tapping. There it is! A hard, corked heal of a polished shoe on tile, wouldn't you say? The General dying in the courthouse. He lost the war. His tongue was dried and his windpipe dislocated. He was buried in sand. The ecstatic oligarch of a lost civilization's media: music, violence, growth, prostrations, revisions, wet shoulders, fronts, mumbles, exhultations, doilies, monuments, hate, nostalgia, denial, puppet fucking, dust, acquittals, stolid beyond and within, redemptions, witches, technocrats, shocking facts, treasons upon high seas, daytime television, misleading information, reported gang affiliations, employee misconduct, hay fever, free speech, cotton dresses, islands, women whose hips swung like hoses, brick facades, tinkering, rail spikes, cryptozoological inertia, scientific gridlock, lemonade, moon-tide menstruation, hymnals for sale, snowstorms in the East, legacies, owlish professors, parking lots, and bank accounts. The General's foot has stopped tapping. You'll notice the silence. This frequency was long ago abandoned. What we wish to recover will diminish if we shade this oribital joy from others in the world. We plunge our being into the future in laying down our pasts. We don't see either clearly. Volume and tone are hints on our radar. But somewhere beyond our vision, out of sight, is static. By it we abide, we tune in, and will to the end. Ours is a civilization of sound filtration. We live, no matter, together within a broadcast. At one frequency there is an audience, a plausible reason to believe in our utility and unity, our mutual desolation more like it, and to explore the possibility of nudges and vaults, of still more roads not taken, of encouragement, prolonged joy, and a new way of letting it all go to the birds.