Zone of Transit

To cope with the death of her father, my friend developed

a concept she called “Life Show,” in which she imagined herself

as the protagonist of a reality show. This is, arguably,

a more suitable parsing of however clouds, after

robbery, present themselves

than how I decided to read and re-read Mark Fisher’s Ghosts of My Life, which

lead me back somehow, in a way I can’t recall, to

the sidewalk. The availability of unbruised, transplantable

hearts, extracted from collided sedans, put into coolers under

what I think, based on an increasingly unreliable memory, Fisher called “occupying

powers,” as if light itself was

invested in the distribution of atherosclerotic cells. The under-studied gait

we develop after fluidly integrating into conversation the definition of “hauntology.”

Grief is a dissertation, or am I

still angry about how long I spent trying to publish what are just

feelings, but I think

the second chapter fails to consider recent re-interpretations of Heilbroner’s

foundational take

on the logic of capitalism, which is not just

at all, and has everything to do with the cement that lines the painted, asphalted

rows along which another body is passing

right now, finally allowing me to understand the dialectic as

my own dead, silent father producing the noise of whatever flash of the ambulance

a camera from the show’s pilot can record.