Just Being In A Room With Myself

I Know California Isn't A Real Destination. You Can't Get There From New Jersey, Not Simply By Following A Line Drawn On A Map. The Process Of Arrival Is More Subtle And Complex. It Involves Acts Of Contrition. You Must Appease The Gods. You Must Find Novel Forms Of Penance. You Must Tattoo Your Children And Look At The Wonder. It's About Conjuring And Awakening And Intuitions You Wish You Never Had.

The Peruvian Flute Music Is . . . Cool. In This Music, They Have Not Yet Invented The Industrial Revolution That Leads To Excessive Punctuality Or The Failed Experiment They Call The Nuclear Family. This Is The Music Of Elements, Untarnished, Unrehearsed.

Like I'm Dragging Bundles Of Old Clothes? I'm Carrying Artifacts That Breathe Fire. I'm Talking About A Language Of Smoke. These Are Three-dimensional Creatures That Can Mate. I'd No More Leave Them Go By The Side Of The Trail Than I Would My Child. I'll Carry Them Until Someone Amputates My Arms.

In Communist Countries, You Execute Your Poets. In The Free World, The Poets Execute Themselves.

If You Can Be Anything Else But A Writer, Be It.