10

The dogs go out into the morning mist and eat the entrails. There was nothing left of the perfect triangles & rectangles which could formerly be seen painted across the heavens. We have gotten to the point where we say, quite rightly, "What the fuck?" though the brain of a cat is only able to consider and comprehend very basic things. And so we fool ourselves by saying, "Nothing is wrong, no, nothing is wrong with this situation at all," though we go out into the morning dew to see the dogs eating the entrails. Animals all. Cannibal's dog. This was the reason for that phrase I saw posted across the heavens that said in black boldface, "These were the days of undertakers and poverty of will." And so you see how I tie the sticks together into a cross using the bark of the selfsame sticks, and how I kill a chick with the bones of its mother, and how I boil eggs in the broth of their mother, and how I keep the instruments of cowslaughter in a pouch made of the leather of cows. For these are all things I write upon papyrus leaves and cast into the tornado, to fly to where they will, and let the currents of the wind carry them all as messages to the ones who are damned; and nothing is damned but my cup and cross (for it is a curse to be hung upon a tree). Everything becomes like the light seen on the surface of a pond, light which one can look at and past at the same time, and see life living in the waters between. This is all that my poetry says; and thus I am condemned, a criminal, an honest man.