by Bean Newton
E.W. Wilder's Foreword: A New Eclecticism
I suppose I believe the Matriarchy. She controls the gods and tells
us when to rain. I live and die by the stars She shines upon me.
The gravel is cemented underfoot. My mitochondria are ruled by the Matriarchy.
The moose comes down from the mountain to fite and fuck. He doesn't want
to: it is compulsion beyond control. The Matriarchy pulls the male moose
down from the mountain. He wants to die.
I want to die. I don't blame the Matriarchy. I don't blame nobody but
myself. I blame myself for the sake of myself: corm, leaf, branch: it
doesn't matter. Leaves wither, as well they should.
Beavers badgers, gashes, slits: Cole and Rita talk about The Lack. All
of our metaphors are empty.
I don't believe the ant thinks of himself the same way we do.
When your life is to drone, to carry your bits of cake and gummy wads
of spilled soda to feed the queen's minions, who cares about being who
you gotta be?
Genetically, of course, I am expendable; that don't confront me none,
18 Sides Monster Cream Wagon
Why I Like Recess