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April 6 Draft 4

Lissen, piggies. Down there, I too was subject
to the cult of improvements. One must get
better to get up, we said. It came in different
flavors. Chakra banking, fatherhood, hairshirt
teams, psychedelic river bed crouching, disciplined
waste reduction, dumpster diving recommodification,
beginning conversations with one’s passion, crossfit,

solitary leisureless damp naked pursuit of one’s own
character, somehow beyond one’s body. As you
approach a truffle, root and ingest, piggies, so we
tried to advance until we might envelop and absorb
those qualities we knew were hovering just beyond
the extreme of perception, a mock sword for
training, straight, wooden, but appearing to curve

as does the road into the backdrop of far. Of course,
one’s character was already there, stitched into you
as were all the battles of all the tribes that fluttered
in and out of stronghold. An emperor sleeps in a fine
bed in a tent in a wood. Sound familiar? Well, piggies,
the thread with which one was cinched was spun
from the detritus. A rumor of death, a passing rider,

a woman whose family was cruel, a child without a
drop of ink. Could you see it scalded on an infant’s brow?
Perhaps, perhaps not. Below, things forge inside,
rust, and crumble there, too. If spring comes, don’t
lift the blankets. The dust blows. It sticks to mud.
The mud is quick, and quicker than the quickening
that precedes the heartbeat, a new spool.