A Strange Assignment

He had been given a strange assignment. Paranoia about the goals and motivations of various student activist groups had culminated in directives to infiltrate them and to test their capabilities, whatever that meant. Over time, he had made friends with some of the more radical elements of their societies, and they had even embraced him as a leader of sorts. He had taken the liberty of proposing certain clandestine actions, benign at first, flyering, chalking, mild anti-imperialist vandalism, setting trashcans on fire and the like, and it seemed that the group was getting a handle on its potential to wreak havoc. Already there had been some talk of pipe bombs, of blowing up power stations, sabotaging cop cars, firebombing administrative offices, inciting riots, protests, and kidnapping the school mascot to name a few. His superiors were pleased with his progress, as the dossiers of his associates thickened. He felt he was on the verge of making contact with some of the known, and hopefully unknown, terrorist groups in the country, and hopefully being recruited to create some real havoc.

At no point was he told that he was going too far. In fact his antics were encouraged, if only to drum up charges significant enough to attract some real media attention at the efficacy of the FBI in the war on terror. One night, on their way to set fire to his own office, an action he had neglected to inform his superiors of, he felt a pang of conscience, as he mounted the steps he had previously taken every day to work, he wondered, whose side was he on? He stopped misstep. He realized that with his skills, he could disappear, he could join this real underground, in fact, it made more and more sense the more he thought about it. What kind of government would condone and encourage this sort of activity in the name of security? His superiors actions now seemed utterly insane, and worthy of rebellion. Either way, his own actions were setting up the basic conditions for insanity inside of his brain. Either he had to stop now, and arrest his compatriots, or proceed and go full tilt, make contact with some of the bigger groups, though which one? Could he trust his own agencies information? Which terrorists were real and which were fabricated? Where would he fit in? would it be better to start his own group, to take this mad tangent to its logical conclusion? What would the agent decide?

बल्ली इन, बल्ली आउट

the keep keep keeping, of all these deep deep readings, gets me undone:

there are only so many beasts, and so many ways of beasting:

FALL RAGED IN THE YELLOWING GRASS, the weight of the unturning, turning, the color of leaves grown heavier than the stalks they sit upon, the air, sucking them down, the ground, calling their number.

I'm not here nor there, if this would lose you, like some indeterminate number of cactus spines in the foot, remember, its only painful till it works itself out, like the dog sleeping, the dust crumbling, fossils coming back to life, as birds or feathers or likelier things, eat a seed, plant a tree, the night, yes, the night, is only so long, unfortunamente, so is the day.