“Perhaps this book will be understood only by someone who has himself already had the thoughts that are expressed in it – or at least similar thoughts.” – L.W.
Even the patient grass. Writhing. Even the sylvan meadow. Writhing. A testament to imperative. Put your ear to the ground. Listen.
The flutes spin and play.
I weave my wicker world in closed thermodynamic chambers, never knowing why. My life painted flat, surrounded by paper jackals.
The trees are serene and lull me to sleep while will flows through the spaces under the density of reality. There is no escape, so I become its priest.
The drive to work. The chemistry of sunrise. The ritual beating of drums.
The chemistry of dusk.
Rhythmic superposition over in the silent flow of a river without shoreline, a river without direction.
And the clouds shift and one reality dislocates and…
…evisceration on a bus.
…freezing under supervision.
..the trap snapping shut – a slow-motion yawning scream – metal jaws grotesquely mirrored in bone, fur, flesh, and spittle.
So too do we revisit the sacred sites of our traumas. A bedroom closet.
A fractured thermostat.
Who is to blame? Blame contingency. Impotently castigate the gibbering mass at the center of the universe.
I am plugged into the mainline of galactic circuitry. Constellations shift under my feet.
I have seen all.
The Black Antelope 
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