Inconceivable Wilson

By Jason Tyler

Wilson goes: planes, boats, walking until the sun quits rising, until the sun stops existing, and there he begins, there he becomes. A place where the trees change shape and purpose, the environment lost to nothingness, where people speak in clatters and clicks, incomprehensible, a place where he is lost in blindness, deafening sickness, waves of unencumbered night. And Wilson unties within their circle, these people of pitch and tar, this village, these men and their women, their children. He should be reading them, writing words, penning a culture, creating a world from the tips of sentences, but he is instead consumed by them, bent to charcoal words on canvas made of darkness, hearing always and only the rattling of bones and laughter. Curtains open and he becomes less.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dzanc Books
• Release date: May 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938103704

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Inconceivable Wilson

J.A. Tyler

Dzanc Books

Dzanc Books

1334 Woodbourne Street

Westland, MI 48186

www.dzancbooks.org

Copyright © 2013 by J.A. Tyler

All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

[portions of this work appeared previously in apt, abjective, decomp, elimae, pank, right hand pointing, smokebox, storyglossia, & unscroll]

Published 2013 by Dzanc Books

A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-938604-74-4

eBook Cover Design by Steven Seighman

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

I write and what I conduct is words. The words I use are the words I use over and over: Go, go, go. A semblance of existence. As if I exist. I existed once. There is nothing but belief in me. I believe in me, in my existence. I believe I exist. I believe in my once and ever existence. In that. Of me. Darkness is a photograph.

Please forgive the way I look, it has been so long since this last picture was taken, and before I became so much less. It may have been yesterday. Tomorrow. I have failed to keep track as I should have. And the girl who took that photograph, this image that has seeped into existence, it is a grainy worthless depiction of me now, her, looking the way I do, having gone so far in. She was a woman I endeavored to train, to love me. It did not work. It does not work, treats in hand. I wanted to be her hero, a savior, instead I went and never came back. I go. I have gone. The inside of it is darkness, a stretch of forever night, lank. Where these people exist, where I went. Nuzzled her neck for a last and then wings to sky, going. I smell her neck on my face, the powder, the scent of never returning. And the sun here is unaware, sullen with my limbs exhausted. And perhaps the picture bores her now, no longer fits, is transparent. Her holding it in fingers, watching me fade.

Inside of me are empty pockets that used to and once contained organs. A heart, a liver, a set of lungs. Kidneys and a pancreas. A spleen. At one time I had eyes. Inside me once I had a system of belief. Inside me once was a picket fence and a desk for composing research, keys typing in stolen cultures, the misappropriated property of years, of living, time in observation. Tastes change. Adjustments are made. She believed in me. There was a start. Believe in me. She stands maybe there, terminal in front, watching the windows, waiting. No plane will house me, no steps. I no longer walk. Maybe her waiting forever or going away. She has perhaps gone away. And I have not looked through a window since I was looking through those same windows, the glass that looks out to the tarmac, the places I left and never returned to, the heat from the asphalt. The sun missing, has gone. The only uniform point is light existing somewhere, if no longer in my hands. Me, holding nothing but my body in pieces, a piece-meal fragmentation of me, my open hands. And I do not exist. That is the now and the however.

In waves and the glare of moons. My arms their moons. The white of skin, my skin, turning in their sand, their dirt, their earth. Spinning the world. Spin, spin. I go, I went. I will fall backwards. Catch me. Their hands hold so much of me, nest in their palms, the gentle strain of veins nestled in a heart. Their bone-hammers and