In essence, a predatory people, fashioned from a divine

autobiomythography, from our own voice : an opened

mouth muse, or muting muzzle. Our sum/some of the

whole unconvinced we all belong together : the eaters of

grass we prey upon; our teeth sharpened & iron in our

countenance; our patience gone to gnashing &

biting carnivores of ambitious appetite.

Fake humans inventing fake realities, then peddling their

Made in ______ cheap to other fake humans, as forgeries

of themselves, is who we are. Our yesteryears denied &

rewritten, despite our heart’s insistence on repentance

when the road runs out & we’ve gotten as far as we’re

going.

Our lives start out small & go forth & multiply, & in this

way, our evolution is nothing short of virulent. Our lives

are only the brain’s chemical perception of what is real—

in the end, less than we wanted, or too much more than,

we needed in the first place.

Our dreams, most often shadowed by parallel choices of

indecision, or the simpering angel-speak of acceptance,

& we find ourselves at the same moment repulsed &

fascinated, resigned, like the woman who once said to me

that where we lived was the garden of Eden, its forest of

lies concealing the conscience of truth.

& our sins, a ravening, still scattering into Babel, like an

annunciation, made from the nowhere nudge of that

sudden impulse—the sudden blow not from anywhere at

all, but the blindside thud of illusion & a willful

suspension of disbelief : writhing serpent-like temptation,

no matter how seductive, is still a fantasy, but keeps us

always wanting

more & more & . . .