"For the first time in two decades, I could experience these poems as I had originally written them."


Talk to Luna.


On my victrola- Funkad*lic: Maggot Brain


Ajtz'ib'.

Finally.


   "Wayfar*rs

We heard the dead leaves rustle
As we walked down the path;
And you would go to Endor,
But I was bound for Gath.

We lingered where the roads forked,
Then parted at the last;
For you would know the future,
And I would drown the past."

--Harv*y Wagn*r Flink


"...the Native [Venetian] tongue--i confess I love the sound of it, like Latin gone rosaceous and soft as butter--..." --ibid


Touch wary mimosa still
go though it bring fury still

ilka karst is slivovitz
spiralling from Gray's still

lunar unicorns gambol
avariciously, sough still

not only a bard trots drab
gossipy Norns yarn wrath still


Minions surround, happy laughing, busy with ruin. It is my own snarl that looks awry. Could i run away with what i want to hold from ruin? Ruin follows: in my running, in my scorn of minion companions.


Languag* W**k at th* Kirch*r Soci*ty.