Monday, August 14, 2006


This one is a beauty.

Round. A rich, weathered chocolate. Metal. Telephone. Inset.

Approximately two feet in diameter. Large and looming.

The teeth of the gear, inside and out, number twelve. Biblical. The number of perfection. 3 x 4. 3 the number of holiness, of God. 4 the number of creation. Holiness and God multiplied by the realm of mineral and flora and fauna.

Each circle of hexagons also numbers twelve. Clock-like. This time is not your time.

The words in the center of the gear: U.S. West Communications. The bell.

You can almost hear the ringing.

You can almost hear the singing of the Holy of Holies at the foot of the throne. "Hosanna. Hosanna. Hosanna in the highest."

You can almost imagine the phone lines that snake underneath. Line upon line wrapped together into a cable as thick as a young girl's calf. Cable upon cable wrapped together into the thickness of a man's torso.

It guards the sidewalk that approaches Union Station.

It waits for you to notice, chameleon-like. Then it springs upon you.

You are weak.

You are weak to resist.

You cannot resist.

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