In and For Rejection

			
Then let us do what must be done
Let us breathe a little life into those bones
Death has discarded, gnawed clean
Save for a little scrap of muscle lean
There, the flower from the bud,
As one season from another,
Comes raging with claw and shoulder
All life, from scrap and sinew
With deft fingers, those threads tied
And so bound begin to heave with life
 
 
You might very well assume the reason why I am sending you this mess of material is because I believe it contains something worth seeing. And though you might be correct in holding such an assumption, you would do well to place it to one side the same way one would in receiving a questionable gift, with feigned, sustained interest. Having freed your attention to find what it will, the pages that sit before you, the hitherto unread pages, suggest their being read.
 
 
I have dwelled in the real of possibility for too long. Backed into the furthest corner of the land, I have made discoveries in retreat. Now, with no place to escape, a sortie must be organized. It is martyrdom only if the conclusion is death. But, ah, to be dealt a mortal wound, to feel the sting of steel after falling victim to its song, that would be to evade death. For being so wounded, by falling on the knees in a gesture of contrition or prayer, one comes to know the land, the land of possibility, all the better. Blood mixes with soil, soil with blood, and everything — body and earth — rage in thirst.