Wormhole to Hell or Wormhole to Heaven by J. Jack Bergeron

Wormhole of sleep which draws all from there to here,īloated, belligerent Babylon of black consumes the bottom corner, far removed from ants,īeckoning the dreamer homeward-or Hellward? Note the placement of pebbles-gold right, gray left-for each side of the brain, he dreams for balance,įor focus, for scale and distortion, placed with precision to escape first notice, the better to manipulate Of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number. Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten-again, depending-could be seven.Īnd the platform: four, or six? Are these tricks of the eye or the mind-or math? By the magic The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally. That tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its baseĪ face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyondīorders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow. The only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin. The only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs The only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient.

What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center

Of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limpįrom a branch long dead, or laid carefully Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness-imperiled heroineĪwaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand-or why the bottom Lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear? Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam- teeth, tongue,

The same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or botheredīy melting timepieces draped about the landscape. The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere-say, Yosemite-buttered by Maybe it’s time to.See Jane Score.“Those who do not want to imitate anything, But once the little reporter sheds her black and gray clothes in favor of a sexy red dress, Luc sees that there is more to Jane than originally meets the eye. The last thing he needs is a smart-mouthed, pain-in-the-backside reporter digging into his past and getting in his way. For as long as he can remember, Luc has been single-minded about his career. But if he thinks he’s going to make her life miserable, he’d better think again. Luc has made his feelings about parasite reporters-and Jane-perfectly clear. By night, she’s a writer, secretly creating the scandalous adventures of “Honey Pie”, the magazine series that has all the men talking. By day, she’s a reporter covering the raucous Seattle Chinooks hockey team-especially their notorious goalie Luc Martineau. A little tired of going out on blind dates with men who drive vans with sofas in the back, Jane Alcott is living the Single Girl existence in the big city.

Wormhole to Hell or Wormhole to Heaven by J. Jack Bergeron