The Body Of Our Saviour Shat But

It’s Not The Word Made Flesh We Want In Writing, In Poetry And Fiction, But The Flesh Made Word

As Rilke Observed, Love Requires A Progressive Shortening Of The Senses: I Can See You For Miles; I Can Hear You For Blocks, I Can Smell You, Maybe, For A Few Feet, But I Can Only Touch On Contact, Taste As I Devour

So If Hunger Provokes Wailing And Wailing Brings The Breast; If The Breast Permits Sucking And Milk Suggests Its Swallow; If Swallowing Issues In Sleep And Stomachy Comfort, Then Need, Ache, Message, Object, Act, And Satisfaction Are Soon Associated Like Charms On A Chain; Shortly Our Wants Begin To Envision The Things Which Well Reduce Them, And The Organism Is Finally Said To Wish.

Some People Say Their Life Is Full Of Darkness And I Wonder Why They Don't Just Try And Switch The Lights On.

For Me, The Short Story Is Not A Character Sketch, A Mouse Trap, An Epiphany, A Slice Of Suburban Life. It Is The Flowering Of A Symbol Center. It Is A Poem Grafted Onto Sturdier Stock.