clamoring for meaning in this fostered reductio
world of phonemes and lexemes, strings and quarks.
Why must the smell of flowers beautiful blue
flowers assault my nose and throat like a German army
of molecular Stazi? My head manages to succumb to
the lung-punctured short-breathed coughing mucus
splayed breathing of my evaporated respiratory system.
Writing that sentence elicited one cough from my red
lungs. Small talk eludes me like existentialism and
post-structuralism. Post-modernism wants to elude thus
is found head to the ground separating the soil
from the toil. Small talk is standing outside the
auditorium during intermission listening to two strangers
pontificate about the pitch quality of the third violinist
during the third measure of the third movement. No
wait a minute - that's pretentious look-at-me bullshit.
Small talk is rambling about things that are of
tangential concern - weather and occupation. Though
a rainy day can mean so much more than the next
report for your boss's boss. Small talk ends where
alcohol begins. Small talk is impersonal; the personal
is the spark that livens intimacy and round-the-table
knowledge. Small talk is the fake laugh at the post
office joking about the long line, or the sports comm-
entator "enlightenment" over Frosted Flakes during another
homeward lunch. the Structuralists marched through
the streets with Dock Martins and shot guns holding the
universe hostage with Her Majesty Science at the throne.
Order and context reign supreme were the signifier lords
the signified. But that bastard post haste meta-structuralism
poured oil and kerosene on the streets and lit fire to
the Queen of Philosophy crowned through a coup of
military success. Damaged the Queen limps on with
her mathematical dogmas and evidential head-banging.
Order lies on the ground smoldering in the balance
of the structured and the free, coughing up bits of coal
with ancient writing reminiscent of the script used
by Daniel in his fight for the supernaturally natural.