3280. WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE
IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

Bleistein with a Baedeker, remember that one? Or anyway, I
think I've gotten it right - he held two fingers aloft, and judged
accordingly, laughed at the moon once, and walked on. Just
today, returning from some stupid romance, I watched the
calendar sky disappear: it passed right through my ages,
and left me thinking of nothing at all. Not the way of all
Mankind, exactly, but it would have to do.
-
Standing alongside the moon-faced pie girl, I watched
the building come down. Piece by piece now, they were
ripping at its facade. Two-hundred year old brick, simply
turning - under pressure - to an orange powder.
The noise glass makes, over and over, and then
the steel of the window-frames hitting ground.
Park-dirt this was not, nor did it seem exactly
even proper to do demolition in this way.
-
Who knew what I don't know? This cloth-fed
engineer, the Greek with the clipboard veneer,
walking around looking at things as they
happened? Was he the one with all the plans?
Sacred or not, as it happened, one old church,
lane-split, and a housing unit or two, all
chunked together. 'To whom are you
reporting now?' I wanted to ask. But
my tumbled tongue was caked with
dust. The moon-faced girl near to
me, she smiled and just took my
hand to lead me away.
So I followed.