Wednesday July 18, 2012

Distant thunder. A black ichneumon wasp walks circles on the porch floor, its wings flickering jerkily like images in a silent film.

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    He will find what he has not spent of his life
    like a distant thunder. It has lost its rumble
    before crawling across dark clouds with a hint
    of a lightning. No jolt here, no surprises. Nil.
    Quite like a deus ex machina in a pulp piece
    that lends itself into a silent film where she
    screams for her knight in shining armour
    to save her from a berserk Kingkong, but all
    it ends with is that silent scream, a Munch
    finis that starts all illusions to remake, if he
    could beg for another run around the floor,
    and redeem a wasted lifetime of frozen acts.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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