Innocence is your child. To find your way you must lose the child. What do you do
when the body will hold no more moonlight?
It didn’t matter what life was saying. I knew that, but I wanted to hear it anyway.
I wanted a reason, even a bad one, why you could talk about it with the cooing in your
voice that made the pigeons soft and sleepy and not about to fly away.
I was watching what was happening to me while it happened. There were some
things in my vision that reality hadn’t put there. A moment that functioned like a used tea
bag. It did almost nothing to the surrounding environment, but you couldn’t help feeling
it should have left something more of itself behind.
Because I knew what I was talking about, I told the children not to listen to me.
Now I can clearly see how blind I am. Like those who believe heaven exists, just
never where you are.
We order whatever they’ve got, like we came here for it and there it was. It doesn’t
take very much of it to be wrong. What we want is worth something. We’re already fat
with it, swollen. A cream sauce made of scorpions and ecstasy.
I know that it doesn’t work that way, but I also know that it doesn’t work. That’s
why I was carrying a couple of goats in my lunch box to help with the vertical
developments and provide inspiration for standing still and staring and eating things that
get in the way. Natural disasters seemed attracted to my resiliency.
Eventually the world will reject you, which allows you to give birth to yourself.
Can you explain now how you ever expected to keep Innocence happy?
Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.
(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)
Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.
Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.