Tuesday, July 03, 2012


according to humans, some get rewards and some are punished when they die, it all sounds a bit like children hoping mommy and daddy will beat up their enemies. religion is inane and childish in this way. as if anyone was born a clean slate. anyone which is everyone was born into a part of the world they had no control over, and shaped before they had a chance to choose or not choose to behave according to that part of the world, right down to the mommy and daddy that were similarly descended from other confused humans and places and sorrows and confusions and so on. everyone looks at the world in a unique way that can never be reproduced, so how the fuck on earth can everyone adhere to the same rules of good and bad?

as simple as this is, it escapes mostpeople, except for youandi. youandi know that everyone is born lost and innocent, but carrying a weight no one else can carry. that is part of the reason we help each other.

ideas of heaven are perverse, created by perverted minds who want to force people into what they think is admirable, hardly even good. sad notions of hell or virgins or nothing belong to little hearts. when it is so goddamn simple:

this is heaven, god told me,

heaven is for everybody. even the murderers. even the slugs. we all shed the skins we dragged through the world and take on bodies made of light. when we shed the world, we realize we were part of some strange beautiful game of stars and subatomic particles. we lose all darkness and everything heals. heaven is a great landscape where we make things of great beauty. there is no pain and only kindness. we are as nice to a dog as we are to an orphan as we are to a king. no one is better and no one is worse. we spend long afternoons learning all the great things the world was and is going to be. god befriends the least and the first and asks what they believed and delights in the contradiction and never scorns. and war is dead there.

and if it isn't true? well, what difference does it make?

Wednesday, June 06, 2012

the end of the world

some people wish for the end of the world. they don't say it like that. they say they foresee a terrible thing on the horizon. they see the biggest of wars coming, they see it all burning. they look around at all the sad and painful things in the world and they see it bearing hideous fruit, as if it wasn't horror upon horror already - in the downtowns, in the war zones over there, in the feasts of the ugly rich. some of them see horror in people trying to be equal, in accepting the rejected. religious men see it in the love of abominations. some see the end of the world because of all the cruelty, or all the blindness, but some see it because they hate the thought the world is not what they want it to be, so they can't imagine it will hold together for much longer. they don't have the imagination to see that really, they want the world to end.

but don't worry, the world won't end. not for a long time. the world of oceans and land will be around so long it will change and change again, until it looks very different than the world we know. maybe that is like ending, but not to me. that is just the way things are born. the world of people probably won't end either. not for a long time. but i can see how a person could get relief from the end of the world. because the more likely outcome is that the humans will keep stumbling along, crushing alot of innocence and goodness in its path. they might even get so good at it they can keep it up for centuries, millennia. we've done that so far. they talk so much about good and right you start to believe they are working on it. but for everything they heal they seem to make two new wounds somewhere else.

and of course, a lot of them that talk about good and right... well... their idea of good and right is so angry and crazy that what their working on is bad fruit for a long time to come. they fantasize new wars, new enemies, new sanitization of life. few of them spend much time asking if they really know, it rarely occurs to them that they might be hurting people, because that would make the world too difficult a puzzle.

but if you believe in good, you've got to do something. you've got to help someone, somewhere. you've got to help them with your own hands. you'll find its hard and awkward at first. its the only way to learn if you're really helping, or if you're just making it up in your head. even then, its hard to know. the only way i've figured out is not to be afraid to be wrong most of the time. that's something a lot of people hold me in contempt for, because they think everything they are comes from their ideas about the world. they'd rather destroy it than admit they are wrong, that in fact they don't really know,

Thursday, May 24, 2012


i was just sitting there watching my dog chew a bone. i watched each crunch of his jaws vanish into the past, one after the other. i sensed the present moment, watched it vanish into the past, one moment after the next. i wondered about this present, some now turning into memory, some time down a long road before i die, before i die and this is all gone, dog, bone, youth - watching the present is a can of worms. watching this slow down. conscious of the end of everything, everything gets transparent but glows a little. and i thought happily i don't know what's going to happen next, and this seemed supernatural;

Friday, May 18, 2012

all of history

for people with very painful lives, the past is more often than not of little interest. remembering is difficult, a return to bad old days. much of my grandparents’ times are lost, and what little is known took a lot of asking and prying. even the happy memories tend to get buried with the hard ones. to me each scrap of their memories and artifacts from their time held immense value, whether it was my irish grandmother’s memory of going to a dance as a teenager in belfast during the second world war and being locked in when a bombing raid began. with nothing else to do, she spent the evening dancing. or finding my grandfather’s fake identification papers when he worked in the maquis (the french resistance), probably made in the south of france around the same time as my grandmother was dancing. they are points of contact, however fragmentary and one-sided, to a once-living past, and that once-livingness seems to me to be worthy of awe. but while i might find this or that particular history fascinating for a while, i see these as currents within a much larger river of time. All of history is interesting to me, even the occurrence of some dandelion on the side of the road in medieval ireland, or the lifespan of a single mountain peak in the northern rockies, or a sailor on an extinct sea. in many traditions, there seems to be an excessive emphasis on those events that “made” history, those world shaping events and forces that smashed the course of the river this way or that, the big boulders, the big rains. 

but history to me is everything that happened before now; even those things which did not have the power to affect the course of human events have significance.although i have my doubts as to whether it is possible, i would like to eventually have a detailed sense of the entire course of this river of history. a river seems a good analogy to me, because this progression of time does happen intimately with the land. one can look back at the course of a river and see distant land and distant life, and this is equally true of time. 

i’m not sure what having a long sense of history would accomplish necessarily, since my primary motivation is reverence rather than utility. to some degree having knowledge of many histories could help explain the relationships between eras and societies as they are now and how they got to where they are. to some degree it could help understand forces in the world that act on people over time. for me, many histories taken together make a grand story that is worth telling if for no other reason than it is in a wider sense my story, or better said anyone’s story.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

one day in the summer

one day in the summer when i was very young, no older than five or six, i was out with my father on a lake in the late afternoon, close to sunset. the water shimmered on that lake in a unique way, in a way that gave it a visibly unique character. while i was playing with the water and talking, my father grew very quiet until I noticed that there were no responses to my child-thoughts. i remember looking at him and seeing a strange distant look in his face, and i think he said something like, “wow” or “my god” and i, amazed, wondered what he was looking at to cause him to be so shocked. i looked and looked in the direction he was staring but saw nothing unusual, until i began to realize in my own little way that he was awed into silence by the mere beauty of the world around him. it was the kind of silence that is done for things worthy of reverence. being a son at that age i thought him the wisest of men. i too looked out on the water and the land and felt an immense reverence for the world. i don’t think my father could have explained in words this sense of reverence, and i am glad i was present to witness it myself. what i learned inadvertently from my father is that the world is an awe-inspiring place even at its most ordinary. i am awed by the notion of so many people coming and going on this land or that land, of the connection of the present moment in a long strand of movements and experiences going back into the distance of the past, and that the land itself has its own stories. a kind of sacred memory.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

riding the booster with enhanced sound

we little beings, we little strange ghosts, we little specks under the big trees and the giant mountains and the far oceans, we make machines that we send up into the universe, which until recently we didn't think was that much bigger than us, and it looks and feels and sounds like this:

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

black ocean

you can walk around for an entire life and not know about the things beyond you. there is a lot to know but we are small and life is very long. out there, past the sky, lives un-numerable places. there live stars bonking against each other, who live for lifetimes of millions of human beings

tex and i used to walk the beach at night when we were kids. we would sneak out of his parents' house at midnight and walk along the lonely beach in the north bush on clear warm nights and talk about the stars. we would stare at them for long stretches of times, walking drunkenly, until we barely felt that we were hanging in space, which we are. dangling, in truth, on the edge of a planet. if you look up at the stars for a long time, you can feel that you are hanging in the middle of this big black ocean, that you are casually standing in the middle of forever.

and we would ask all the questions, there must be other living things up there looking in our direction, maybe hanging off that star, or maybe that one in particular. and how far does it go? they don't know, we would answer, they don't even know how far it is. they guess. and it's such spaces that its bigger than you or me or the country or the continents or the planet or even the sun, which is just small, just tiny, in that heavy dark.

this is the whirlpool galaxy in infrared. infrared is a low energy light that just drifts along, but it shows you a lot of the light because its so fat and long. so we are looking at the burning light, the living burn, the terrible destroyer that gives birth every second to a million bits of life. the fire that would erase you, the fire that makes everything.

and this my friends is a galaxy, elegantly turning like a lake, that looks like a dot of light maybe in the sky. in it are millions of little stars that are bigger than your eyes can take in all at once or bigger than your heart such as it is can feel. in it are maybe more like us, little things travelling and wondering. no different than an ocean with a million phytoplankton dangling in the currents. i can see its incredible life coming out of that mouth in the centre, like a sex organ, like arclight, like the raving of a hydrogen bomb.

here is us looking down at us, blossoming into a traveller. maybe we will become one, and change and think about everything the way stars do, or maybe not. maybe we will just hang around here having petty arguments. the stars feel familiar to me, like places i know, i guess they are around us, i guess before we were born they were here, i guess they are our mothers and fathers?

i don't know. i guess i wish (and its a strange wish) that i could go and meet them like me and tex wished a thousand times, that we could go and see all the stars and galaxies and planets and ask them all kinds of questions,

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

to lily

to lily in the tim horton's, i looked at your face for a second, your uniform didn't fit you, you glowed too much for it. your beige-brown uniform was like hanging christmas lights on a horse, they made you put your beautiful grey hairs in a hairnet. you must have come from beyond the town limits, some place at the end of roads that go off into the bush. you had the healthy skin of a woman who spent seventy years outside in morning fog, digging into garden soil, and somehow they found you with their restless accounts and kidnapped you to work here, handing donuts to strangers in your own town while genius executives admire each other's sad soul-holes over golf in some gated place.

but you hold no grudges, you take care of the world around you, that much i could see from the way your mouth moved easy into a smile, you glow everywhere they put you, you carry invisible grandchildren in the crooks of your arms making coffee two cream two sugars thunk thunk goes the machines that guard you and dispense cream, but if fugitive justice which haunts the greasetraps of civilization has a dawn, it must glow like you do

Friday, March 09, 2012

night vision

down in the underground city, the night is the underside of the ocean, littleluminsecent phytoplankton, swimming stars. below the highrises decrepit grown up from seed, their trunks of glass, their stone mouths, their headless stares. the wail of ambulances, the roars of subways, the clattering of ghosts.

cities show their best sides at night. during the day, they are bleak, hard places, like dried up sea floors, but at night the cities becomes the homes of nightpeople, outsiders, the darkness comes in like a protective mother, brings the walls in closer, the streets draw in, the lights come on like a drunken magic show, every weird or unwanted person lives at night - every strange job is done, after the lifeblood is dreaming soundly. cops, street cleaners, drug dealers, emergency room nurses, smoking 24 hour convenience store clerks, bouncers, and all the beautiful and ugly gods masquerading as hookers, madmen, drug addicts, police, drifters, predators, insomniacs. the night is the underground day.

so many of these gods have passed the corner, down this street or this alley, slept in this dark park, that at night the air wakes with their trails of spirit left in it. these memories cannot be seen but felt by night vision - on any corner have been magnificent meltdowns, casual dooms, questions of eternity by impending suicides, heartbreaks of lunatics, theologies of crackheads, revolutions invented by runaways, romances of the unemployed. serious duels took place down some alley, treason against friends hatched by the glow of mcdonalds - humans blossomed greatness under all minute conditions, even in this hell and tyranny of machines and advertising.

and it goes like this: far down is the rock and the soil, crushed on top of that is a layer of ancient history - the foundations of cabins, buried horses, fence posts, old trash. then comes the great tunnels - the fat sewers, mazes of subways, hidden holes, underground parking lots, steel bars, humming wires, dead bodies under the headstones, silent basements, secret bunkers, waterlogged archives, flooded rooms. then - a thin layer of ashphalt, the roots of persistent dandelions, the roots of jailed trees, concrete, more wires, staircases, shoes, piss, cardboard boxes, car tires garbage cans faces of sleeping gods rats stones syringes abandoned notes cigarette butts old gum

and the rest you know: streetlights, story after story of squares of light and darkness, giant lcd screens - then the tops of skyscrapers, serenely blinking red airplane warning lights, bank insignias, then the great mother ocean, smog or a star.

who could pray for the nightpeople? how could we ever praise or honor them enough, like people used to for the gods of spring or lakes or death?

Friday, February 24, 2012

the american civil war

i'll try to explain this, but i don't know if it will come out right. a long time ago, in the united states, they had themselves a civil war. a lot of people shot each other, burned down a lot of things, mostly people died from the sicknesses that accompany deprivation. which is what happens in war, apparently, all the good things that make life worth living kind of get destroyed.

the civil war was a kind of madness that overtakes people sometimes. there really isn't much to justify it, slavery wasn't abolished until about halfway through the war, and then only as a strategic decision. lincoln's desire throughout the war was to keep the "union" together. which is a nonsensical reason to kill hundreds of thousands of people. so in essence lincoln was as insane as the mad hatter. robert e lee, who ordered a suicidal charge at gettysburg, sat on his horse and met the troops returning, blooded and broken, repeating "i'm sorry, i'm sorry" - because he had ordered them into a futile attack. and for this he is seen as noble. but of course, he was doing that so that his bosses back in the south could keep whipping and raping and crushing the life out of black people. so robert e lee's notion of nobility is insane.


despite the protests of southerners, the confederacy's desire for independence was insane too. they were in a huff because they thought lincoln might end slavery, so they decided to leave the union of the united states. that's a pretty terrible reason, however you look at it. they were willing to kill a bunch of people to defend their culture, which was a disgusting culture not worth saving. it was based on the notion that white people should dominate millions of black people. if the south were not part of the united states but existed in some asiatic country - say cambodia - it would be scorned as brutal and uncivilized tyranny.

there are many stories of individual heroism and villany. this is what made the mythology. the union soldier macpherson once rode accidentally into a battle only to run up against a wall of confederate soldiers. they ordered him to surrender. instead, he doffed his hat, turned around, and rode for his own line. the confederate soldiers shot him in the back. that was sad, but as a soldier, macpherson often told his men to ride into a hail of gunfire. and perhaps, had he lived, he would have gladly joined his buddy custer when he went to kill indians after the war. the men and women who acted in extraordinary fashion in a cause that should have sent most of them to an insane asylum do seem heroic and villanous, if only you forget they were killing each other to keep a country together whose main goal was to wipe out the natives who lived there and take their land, or keep a country apart so that they could keep torturing and crushing the life out of people who had another colour of skin.


there is a new way of telling this story, that the civil war didn't need to be fought because they could have found another way to end slavery. this is the view of ron paul and other crackpots. this ignores of course, that the war was fought to preserve slavery, so that it couldn't be ended. and to this day the south is much like what nazi germany would have been like had they grown old. they lost their enthusiasm and so mellowed out like an abusive grandfather. blacks are still treated like dirt in the south, its just less hysterical now.

the north's victory over the south was hardly a noble one. within ten years the era of jim crow laws came into being, and the south remained very much a racist society for oh - a hundred years, and even now "southern culture" is still treated fondly and patronizingly, as if pompous elitism were somehow charming, and puffy white ignoramuses still lead them into brutal and idiotic political tragedies. the freeing of the slaves led to a society so resentful of black people that between the end of the war and about the mid-1960s they were lynching - that is, torturing and murdering black people - at about 2 or 3 a week at its height.

what all this shows is that despite all the mythology of a noble victory, the truth is the united states is a place caught between extremes of evil and good, and the compromise is ugly and unhappy. the civil war wasn't between two americas, it was between america and itself, and humanity an afterthought. and to this day that country still struggles to admit its own horrific soul. and every victory comes at a cost that defies its rationale.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

residential schools

amnesia is a self-inflicted wound. its the wound that follows the wound. in olden times, it was never the cut that killed you, it was the gangrene and the rot. black holes are implosions that suck in everything around it, so the physicists say, until even light can't escape. until you cannot see it anymore. we only know its there because its twisting everything around it, getting bigger and bigger.

a long time ago there was a big turtle. it lay in the middle of a big lake, happily gurgling the water and watching the world as slowly as it takes a cloud to drift from one side of the sky to the other. the turtle was so big and slow that grass and trees and even littler lakes grew on its happy back. every once in a while it took a walk around the lake and the animals used to roll on their backs laughing at the sight of those trees and bushes and little hills of mud rocking crazily back and forth as the turtle lurched on its lakey tour.

but mostly it just sits and breathes and watches the fishes go by.

and then one day the animals decided it was safe to sit on the turtle's back, and so they did and tested the ground. and then after a little while they began to make little dens and nests and caves. crows and foxes and owls and bears and deer and wolves and sparrows came. and they made children and soon enough the grandchildren of the animals thought the turtle's back as the best house in the world.

and one day, wouldn't you know it? the crows and the wolves and the deers and the bears gave birth to the little people, who danced and roamed around on the turtle's back and swam in his lakes all the while he gurgled happily in the great big lake he mostly half-slept in.

and the little people, swimming around, discovered the turtle's head one day, his eyes and his gurgling mouth and his fat nostrils. and they told their parents all about it, the land is alive! it's actually a big turtle! and everyone then was very careful how they treated the ground they walked on, so as not to disturb their benefactor.

and so things passed for a good long time.

but then one day big black boats appeared at the turtle's back. and other little people came onto the edge. some said they were from another turtle far away, others said they came from hell. wherever they came from, they appeared to be very lost, because they were looking for something they could never find. they were angry and scared. they kept thinking everything was going to bite them. and every time something didn't bite them, like a shrub or something, they laughed nervously and and kicked it and bit it and showed the others there was nothing to fear. and if something, say a mischievous wolf, bit one of them, they all gathered together and chased the bastard down as if it were the end of the world.

and they built towns and forts on the turtle's back and cut down many old trees to build the houses. and they didn't like the little people who lived there, and tried their best to make these people talk and act like them, so that they could trust them. but the little people didn't want to be like them and there were many problems.

and once the nervous people were strong enough and the little people weak enough, they began to steal their children and teach them how to be more like them. they stole as many as they could, and they stole many. they taught the children of the little people how to be like them, how to be not like their parents, and then they sent them home. it was a strange plan. but scared people do all sorts of strange things. for you see, they are so afraid of dying that they try to kill everything that will make them die until the world is full of death. and everyone has to put up with them and be changed forever by them.

and the children of the little people grew up lost like the nervous people. lost on their own turtle's back. and they were sad and broken, like the trees the nervous people chopped down. just like them. this went on for years, and all the while the nervous people built cities on the turtle's back and big towers of black smoke and green smoke, and they dug big holes in the turtle's back. and the children of the little people, running lost among the strange tangle of highrises and highways and open-pit mines, even though they were lost, so that they could barely remember the forests of the turtle's back, still groaned aloud when they saw the holes in the turtle's back.

and this is the story everyone tries to forget

Wednesday, February 01, 2012

the rocks

the waves keep coming up against me, the riddles, the edges. the great ocean lurching, all the giants, a scared child, a billion scared children heaving forward, rocking back, over generations and generations, waves and waves. the now just a stick in the water of the great amniotic blue. i breathe the air of it, smell the water of blood and dirt and generations of trees, the grandfathers of these cedars, and their grandfathers, all in this dirt, the ones that stood alone and while the anishnaabe woman walked between them, the irish farmer against them, the drunken bush boys that punched each others' faces in the holy eternity of cedars.

i see the movements of people and trees, seeking peace and finding war. i see me (as in - us), swarmed with imaginary myselves, what could have beens, what weres, what i thoughts i wasses. the warm or cold days. the kid in the toronto jail "well, at least i gave you something to talk about" trying to make me or us something worthy other than a spectacular sorrow, because violence is funny to those because its funny because its true. these ancient romans disguised as canadians, these natives disguised as ancient history, these histories informed they are not present and should go home, even though they eddy around their legs. even though they flood the future.

but i have faith in you, the same kind of faith i have that these sleeping throbbing cedars will breed new cedars next spring; some among the coast salish say there are tunnels running among the mountains and the rivers, that connect this place to that. they find dead bodies of failed travellers at their mouthes sometimes. i feel old, like a stone in some valley with moss and dead bugs all over it, ready to turn back into rivers of fire a billion years from now like i did a billion years ago. but when that comes i'll be different, i'll be also all these memories of when it was now and young and rare and the skies were tangled in the planet's hair.

i am a thing that is moved by all the animals inside me and all the ones outside me. but a billion year old stone is a god in the river. i was once an ocean of fire that made all of you, and will be that ocean again. all i have to do is be still while i am walked across, you and a thousand wolves, and i am so still that when you pass it takes a million years, and the silence in me is an ocean,

Monday, January 16, 2012


its one of the things, youknowandsaid, its a molecule and a force and a wave but its everywhere but you cant touch it yet it is captured by leaves a million times a day and encased in sugar and there you exercise it as energy and thus you move and feel and gesture and talk and form and if you were still you would cease to exist; it can be broken into colours, because each colour is just a different speed of light, and if there were no eyes we would feel these colours as heat and is heat is the exhaust of energy which can be neither created nor destroyed and heat comes from the transformation of one thing into another, and transformation is motion, moving from one thing into another, moving from one moment into another, when a plant grows it is moving very slowly, when you move you are growing very quickly, light is the part of the atom that broke off and veered off into spaceand it can be slowed down or sped up and nothing moves faster than light einstein said but he also said i made that up because its the only way everything i said makes any sense, and maybe there would be no you, no laughing, no thoughts, no pain, no bullshit or drama or paintings or touch or violence if there wasn't light, bleeding out of the sun omnidirectionally which means in all possible directions because it is a sphere and this is the world you sit in casually, and in the beginning all things were hydrogen which is the simplest atom in the universe and it is by smashing hydrogens together, they say, that you get heliums, and by smashing that together you get other stuff and so on eventually and all the time and every time the little simple atoms smash together they leave a little debris called light which is how we all move and essentially this means we are congealed light in complicated forms

Saturday, January 07, 2012


i'll never be a lot of things. mayor or president, for instance. and i don't believe in genesis, but i don't believe in the big bang either. so much for me, rootless. no gang to join. if they got me now there'd be no one to revenge me. ah well. speachless, speakless, spokeless. frozen river. i'm alone, i need a spirit to talk to tonight, some ghost. a man with a sparrow's head in a pinstripe suit. here he comes. he slams a knife into the table between us.

"buy me a drink?"

"sure, they're selling a local dark"

"tell them to bring it to me in a discarded coffee tin"

the bartender, with her crow's smile, never left the bar. she and the sparrow smile at each other. she dips the coffee can into the night and he draws it from the window, drinks it and let's the dark run down his face. a blast of noise burps above us, above the ceiling.

"where you from?"

"out there, no one invites me inside anymore"

"they forget"


the ceiling bends down and it rumbles and it groans

"what the fuck are they doing up there?" asked the sparrow and lit one of my cigarettes

"it's a ritual. they turn their souls inside out" i explained.

"good idea. do they have to bust the ceiling like that?"

"yes, i think so. can you do magic?"

"sure, kid." he pulled his sleeves, showed the inside of the left one to me. i squinted down into it, saw a tunnel in it, underground rivers, water falling into caverns and bats and rats.

"that's some shirt"

"thanks, my mother made it for me"

we both drank quietly. a bunch of night spilled out the sides of the can, splashed little black forevers on the table and the floor.

"no stars" i commented.

"there are not necessarily stars in night" said the sparrow

"that's your knife?" i asked

"knives belong to those that hold them" he said

"god, it's true"

"can i come with you?"


we left the bar, discarded the contents of our pockets upon the floor, sewing thread, radical pamphlets, shards of mirrors, butane lighters, cameos, bits of candle, lighting bolts, dry tears, stray tones, poison eye, crayfish claws, old keys, fish heads, stones that crawled into our shoes, somehow,

i took him along the river's edge, he played with little fires in his hands and threw them up into the air, watch them trail downwards like leaves, blue fires, red fires, purple fires. he danced around in circles, threw up a green fire and made a face

"the birds are all confused, have you noticed? they're flying north and west and only sometime south," i said

"they will find their way, i think," he said, "but who knows, with all these machines, what they will change"

"and then?"

"the green gods buried themselves far down in the earth, and they crawl around down there, filling their wombs with seeds, and roots, garbage, decomposing trees. they live for millions of years, you know, far beyond you and me, they don't care about hiding a few thousand ages, and look..."

he pointed up with one clawed hand at the sky, unsounding, where storms writhed around, big black night clouds, each one a fat monster bigger than a city

"once i stood on top of a mountain," i said to him,"and could see everything. groves, hills, little rivers, single trees and whole forests. and i saw a herd of wild horses. stallions and mares and foals, all fugitive and wandering in this neverending wilderness. they were grazing in a little field. there was not a road or anything like that to be seen. they lived in the foothills of the rocky mountains. i watched them, they couldn't see me, and i watched them breathe. and i adored them, and then, there was something no one heard, and they lifted their heads and ran into the forest, undulating in their running like a lake of muscles and wild sex. ran into the wilderness on an instinct. and it was this then that i learned i was a body, made of so much water, and stones, calcium for bones, iron tasted on a cut finger, carbon like a coal mine, like burned wood, like me,"

"you are so little" said the sparrow, and the moon gave birth to a salmon that swam through the aurora borealis like seaweed