It’s not after all that “history” is some kind of mission
but that it scatters sensual objects on the pages of

nostalgia, a flare of spores around the negative of a tiny
black hole. Hearst’s wife had an affair with Chaplin. She/

he had different ideas from his host. His shoes were too
large for his small feet. He could not tread lightly. Or

like Melville, he was too focused on capital, caught up,
delivered like dental floss through a cog and force-fed:

“bring me the fat in California.”* It was a funny scene
then, but not so funny now. I call it news but others call it

“reportage,” a phosphorescent language spoken by a type of
shelf fungi. A story about fish and weather is deposited

on the shore among small sinkers, hooks, and graying corals.

*Killer Shrews. Enemy Records
EMY 141-1, 1993