Doompunk Dispatch

[Edited by Amabilis O’Hara]

Spring means nothing to the San Tobit desert.

Tiny temperature alterations barely perturb the barren ecosystem. But the Gardens feel it. From March 22nd to May 19th, they flourish in a sea level canyon. Legend speculates that plants do not grow there. Names do. Delirious letters spell delicious words, ripe for enunciation. Imbibe the fruit’s flesh and Know.

One seeker sojourns for this verbal oasis. She trundles down Gerund Canyon—her Orphic descent carrying her like spores tracing pink arabesques on the perfidious breeze—and follows the winding corpse of the long-dry Ekphrastic Creek. She takes steps with a thief’s conviction.

The Gardens house the rarest plants on the planet. Vegetative consciousness abounds in verdant ecstasy. Reverent flowerbeds bow heads, inviolate in vibrancy. Violet irises roll out the red carpet for this sunburnt bodhisattva.

The seeker sinks deeper. The river rises past her waist, now torso, now neck. Strange amphibians slither in vortices below her toes. Atop a lily pad sits the seeker’s prize. The Gardens’ springtime environment enriches a certain scarlet cactus sporting white clouds of pernicious spines. This peyote-like entheogen promises mystical dispatch. Just don’t let its tips prick your throat during download.

Exhaustion forgotten, she forces the thing into her mouth. Epidermal defenses slice her lips. Lovely wounds weep inside her cheeks as wooly fibers gouge her uvula. Salival psychopomp and stomach circumstance greet the guest.

Head slips beneath the creek—body sinks into murk. Gossamer knots untie—she lies in the grotto at the bottom of the world. Fish filch her nutritious bits. Particles crack off participant participles. The seeker merges with Everything Else. She Knows and therefore is Known.

On May 20th, as always, the Alphabet Gardens shrink away, leaving nothing but the scorched, scarred desert.

The rest is spit in the wind.