Not Me, Paranoia's The Garlic In Life's

Darkness Invades The Dreams Of The Glassblower. Of All The Unpleasantries His Dreams Grab In Out Of The Night Air, An Extinguished Light Is The Worst. Light In His Dreams, Was Always Hope: The Basic, Moral Hope. As The Contacts Break Helically Away, Hope Turns To Darkness, And The Glassblower Wakes Sharply Tonight Crying, "who? Who?"

He Gazes Through Sunlight's Buttresses, Back Down The Refectory At The Others, Wallowing In Their Plenitude Of Bananas, Thick Palatals Of Their Hunger Lost Somewhere In The Stretch Of Morning Between Them And Himself. A Hundred Miles Of It, So Suddenly. Solitude, Even Among The Meshes Of This War, Can When It Wishes So Take Him By The Blind Gut And Touch, As Now, Possessively. Pirate's Again Some Other Side Of A Window, Watching Strangers Eat Breakfast.

Through The Machineries Of Greed, Pettiness, And The Abuse Of Power, Love Occurs.

There Are Stories, Like Maps That Agree... Too Consistent Among Too Many Languages And Histories To Be Only Wishful Thinking.... It Is Always A Hidden Place, The Way Into It Is Not Obvious, The Geography Is As Much Spiritual As Physical. If You Should Happen Upon It, Your Strongest Certainty Is Not That You Have Discovered It But Returned To It. In A Single Great Episode Of Light, You Remember Everything.

Murphy's Law, That Brash Proletarian Restatement Of Godel's Theorem.