"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



I will soon be asked to speak on the subject

of a local psychic   She who traffics in false hope

The shadow side of holy    A dark art to be sure

She knows not what she does  Perhaps well intentioned

trimming her hemlock   +shrubbery   Perhaps a lover of



We sapient apes have been consulting oracles since the

beginning of time   Since the day on the savannah when

a greying ape lay down   They poked + prodded but it did

not rise   Soon maggoty silence   Bones cleaned of sinew


With this they knew  long before the apple+the snake  Forever

creatures unto death   Crouched in fear of the insatiable God

of the Mystery  They howled like dogs into the wind   All art a big

SOS  We are here  Rescue us  Resurrect the dead   We’ll give

you our firstborn son   Flay the skin   Pots of gold    Old ceremonies

bestowed immortality  upon the few


A fisherman   A boy by a Bodhi tree   But no such opiate for you+me

What makes us vulnerable to the dark artist?  to exploitation?  to abuse?

All sorcerers are intuitives  highly skilled observers  and so are most

pedophiles   I don’t need a medium to lead me to my father’s voice  It’s

in my DNA   Love is the glue  the grail   It fills the chalice  and makes him

ride again


His eyes were very blue and very beautiful half hid away 

in the leathery seams of his face. As if there were something

there that the hardness of the country had not been able to touch. 

(The Crossing  Cormac McCarthy  1995)



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