Tuesday, August 4, 2009
birds in mid-flight over an ocean of enormous, believing in the place they will rest
climb down into my ribs. there is an aching. put on your boots for the dank and the wet. be sure to bring your tools. bring the adze, the auger. bring the hammer, the saw, and the level. bring wood. there is much work to be done. do not concern yourself with silence. when you are inside, you will hear the rustling. light a match in the darkness. you will see it, hulking there, quivering in the flickering chamber, wine-colored mass of pulp, whispering meat flailing in that humid cavern, murmuring in an alien tongue long ago lost to us. you must fix it. you must reach your hands into the machinery, and let it resonate through your bones. you must build the scaffolding high, venture into the inner reaches. ply your trade. i am trusting you. you must help me. you must.