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?

<^>