Spicer, in admitting he was making stuff up (After Lorca), was the first honest translator; likewise, in affirming our multiplicity, we become more honest than when we were pretending to play but one part on a bare Noh stage with only the stick tree of intelligible History standing beside us.

Poems solve nothing. What we need is Witchcraft.

Not subjectivity (all higher animals have that) but subjunctivity is what marks the ineluctably human. Our imagining, & our desiring, to have things otherwise. (Is it surprising half the country’s in a state of terrible denial?) Subjunctivity is to us what dug warrens are for the rabbit, & the great migration pathways are for monarchs: a rigor & a refuge. So far from being the “naked ape”, we make all creatures else seem naked, next to our intricate mantling of mythography. --And i think the imagining came first, & only afterwards led to language. Because we wanted to weave something still cleverer, than what we could manage with the weaving of our hands.

‘Belief is like love: it can not be compelled; and as any attempt to compel love produces hate, so it is the attempt to compel belief which first produces real unbelief.’ --Schopenhauer

“When Poliphilo is overcome with physical attraction to the architecture he sees, he admits to having sex with buildings. At least once, he claims the pleasure was mutual.” --The Rule of Four

“The Great Game”

Salad days of vampire,
Warp for which a people longs,
In the black scripture told.
Halcyon dawns of autumn
Fracture my sense of ingrown wrongs
In the black scripture told.

These are the taken tokens
Fires by night & deals awry
Wandering fires i answer to
Like a drudge with random songs
In the black scripture told.

Tithe or crimson fathom
Stars that the legionary names
Dying far from comfort
While the laughter rings of throngs
In the black scripture told.

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