Infinite Regret

A pledge to the Devil, a sigh of dread, what follows? There is a thread connecting a pursuit of Truth (or is it justice) with an elegiac survey of History. Its soaked scrolls, documenting, detailing delineating the model of progress as being half-checked by simple murder. What wind stirs the flames in Bulatovic's protagonists? Does this arid current contaminate? Why is it essential that there be something "worse than evil." Why allow the theoretic "step outside?"

 

Muck akin to the sand paintings of the Ganges Valley, the ephemera of deed is lost in relativistic eddies, all aswirl in measureless consequence, Russian dolls in diminishing stature. What then does one prescribe in effort to avoid the proscribe? A discourse of inclusion invariably slams atop the rocks of Valuation, time bleeds all of such imperative. Motes betray degradation. "Eventually everyone eats sand," deadpans one of Soyinka's mendicants. So we will. The length of a frozen afternoon often reveals but saddened lines etched across with no hope, nor intention, of accomplishment or destination, it is a gesture midair.

 

The cleansing fields of fire are sought by Gruban Malic. He imagines an incinerated equality, a Utopian conflagration blurring all thought and deed into gibberish where a communion of millet and plum brandy will suffice for a rust-belt City of God. His asbestos cloak, his fireman's helmet, his Balkan medals, ejaculating donkey and ubiquitous globe arm his means as Vishnu, destroyer of worlds. �

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