William Fuller

THE GARDEN

In the Servicing Unit all desks face outward in a circle which has been
contrived with no interior. It sits on a kind of pinwheel and spins.
Thousands of figures are daily computed to justify it. Assignments are
made, people move briskly back and forth following the rhythms of
demand. Transactions are contemplated, initiated, executed. I appear
at the request of the village, with my service requirements. These are
laid out and anatomized by the occupants of the outermost desks.
Occasionally someone turns toward a screen full of whirling lines and
numbers. I close my eyes and listen to the white noise of the Unit.
Random statements anchor the deadspace:'You pay for things you
can't reach for.' 'A terrible incision has occurred.'

Finally I glance up to see a piece of paper on which my requirements
have been analyzed. It says: 'Material needed: a clear plastic bag.'
 
 

SCREEN MEMORIES DOCKET

...let's consider who it was that dreamed it all

Will it actually work? This question has been deferred long enough.
The Recalculation Assistance Committee has reviewed and
standardized potential responses (within a specific range of
centralized input) and will be offering its executive abstract. In the
meantime, staff is asked to recall section 1.03 of the New Mission
Statement, "we intend to work with clients whose values we support."
Other new business concerned the post requests submitted by Lord
Herbert of Cherbury, who elegized the death of Hands-On Training,
which, he concluded wistfully, "offers access to low cost techniques
for the enhancement of reputations." The Committee was impressed.
Immediately a vote was taken, phantoms abstaining. It was resolved
that all details be transferred directly to the Screen Memories Docket
for interplay and aporia.

Later, trolling off-site, they practised their auto-sums. The hope for
a successful Redesign had come down to Sublime Conceptions
versus putting money to work. "It looks like a wall," Lord Herbert said.
But the expression in his voice was spurious.
 
 

BRUISED WINE

The rest of the treatise is wanting
and I say 'Bank!'
seeing into the world
for the first time—
Do we confess
it tastes like sugar
within this idea
incorruptible
as it proceeds
darker and drier
on every leaf
irreducible
within its orbit
all future events
to be disputed
by hands brushing
the sharp boundary
between propositions
rising from the center
of the earth
now clings to walls?
 

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