Saturday, November 20
A
American algorithm. Again. Another. Automatic. A is antecedent, anterior, the abscess from which all else arises. The atrocity in the attic, but also the attic's architecture. Also the aisle, the apse, the arcade, the atrium. The atria of the heart, the aorta, the walls of the arteries. A is for ambient and amniotic, for always in the atmosphere. It is about, above, across, after, against, along, among, around, at. Again. Like an anthem. The aquifer we drink from. Ad nauseum, ad extremum. Anytime: April or August; autumnal or annual; artefact or aftermath; ante-mortem or autopsy. No astonishment, no anomaly. Not agape or aghast. Not anymore. Another. An accident; the back of an ambulance. An abrasion, an ache, an affliction, an abyss. Not ancient, not antique, not ago. A is for always, for anagram. Again. An archipelago of blood across an avenue, from area code to area code, reaching arroyo, atoll, arch, alluvial fan. Again for the albatross shot down, for the asphodel like an asterisk beneath an armored vehicle. An animal astride a body on the asphalt; for attaboy. A is for audience. A city assieged, aflame, alight. A is for arson and ash, for the aureole of aerosols. For the aspens aquiver in the acrid air. For asphyxiation. A is for air freshener. Another. A is the alarm absorbed by the amygdala, the anvil of anxiety, the agony rising along an axis. Again. Asymptote, avalanche, amplitude, acceleration, accretion. Again. In the American alphabet, as long as A is for acquit, absolve, amnesia, it cannot be for aloe, apricot, Arcadia. No ambrosia, amaryllis, anemone, arum lily. A must be for alive. Antivenom. Ave. Amen.
(Claire Wahmanholm)