Excerpt from EYE SKIN- out in late Sepember

They had to catch the light. Even when there was little light to trust. No sun to rely on. No time for true reflection of deed. The eyes had to speak without the possibility of human language, words, shrieks, barks, grunts, snarls or whimper. The moon had to bark and ricochet off the beads and fill in the memory of a power over death no man could claim in his own brief dream of existence. Hunters feed over warm fires their naked antecedents were given to pray over until the next hunt began. The tribe of Ananias. That infinity moment when dirt shitting discalced pagan double thumbed plumped monkeys can become the God of Death—when man gets only half of existence perfectly succinct by ending it for another feeder, breather, drinker and weeper. A hot bullet, a snare, a club, a car, a disease. All our pets. All our chattel. All our vizards lived in dancing fire-light gamed of recusant foppery preserved in frozen deed. Snakeskin boots. Fur coat. Leather quirt. A soft farting chair. A former mother’s dried tanned breast for holding sour tobacco. The monkey’s paw holds a brace of gold chains in the boudoir of an imperious whore. Victory over the beasts of the field and wild night howlers is a birthright; so it has been written in forged spiritual tome. Cunctators with rusty antiquated quills and poison arrows explaining the meaning of life.

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