Sever and deliver some brief pleasure from reserve. Night’s map falls, great static-electric. It’s time to discuss our tedious relation, if any, to everything else existing: to watch it sidle and fade in our campfire anthems, the solitary lyrics of all we lost when we renamed what suffered our appalling stampede. We’ve always seen ourselves as total explorers of these local landscapes, us kids, for they are ours by the issue of exploratory zeal. Property boundaries remain undefined if undefended! Now it’s time to untangle the undergrowth and remake that map at our own minute scale. But remember the rules for entering the forest at night. No biting. No biting. No biting.
“the solitary lyrics of all we lost…”
Jack Boettcher lives in Mississippi. Excerpts from this project appear in horse less review #4.