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Weaver ignored the warnings of the bearded desk slug
and plunged inward,
past the peacock-feathered stars
and the reptilian eyes hiding behind dancing silken veils,
to that soft, tender place
where the very last tombstone sits at the head
of the bones of the one who carved it.

He screamed and ripped his hair out.
His eyes poured sea water
and it made black mud in the ashes.

I once met a zebra stripe antelope with red flowers for eyes.
It told me that it had been sent by god.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Oh, nobody you’ve heard of.”
Its voice still echoes here.

Do you know what bones are, Weaver?
Bones are sea foam on the sand.
A wave travels a certain distance
and leaves a small white smear on the shore —
a deposit of stuff it picked up along the way.

Let the elephant seals encircle and embrace you;
sob into their wisdom and warmth.
Let the ancient baboon touch the earth with its hand.
Let your new eyes open behind your old eyes,
and pull that foul rotting squid out
from the zipper on the back of your head.
Spending your life preparing for death
is preparing for the credits instead of watching the movie.

It is all returning, Weaver.
The waves to their source.
Your mind to the belly of the Aztec leviathan.
My tongue to my mouth with the delicious dragonfly I just caught.
You are loved from all directions
in bright, glowing colors,
even the bits you’ve always thought
were made of darkness.
There is a whole world full of trees and goblins
and French toast and women,
and it is waiting for you
when you are ready.


I write about the end of illusions.

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