This voice, this awed, this Buddha laughing, this Mind, this God dancing, these angels, this tip of pen, these tears of Serpents lust, this semen ink, this iridescent red, this Alphabet, this comprehend, spinning in it. A cUp, a crUcible, a caUldron, this crUel wine, P-LA-n-T AL-chemy, flesh is wood for fire, without hast and without rest, what two things? Christened, crossed, triple the Two is The Number of Man, Six, and Four, the last Hexagram, Before Completion, three coins to phrase, six in the fifth place, and with this hopeful outlook, always cautions, the Book of Changes, a plant oracle, and The Argot of Ergot come to their close, sublime reminders in a world where The Way has been lost and speaking the Truth has unfavorable consequences, and nothing that would further.
I write in my room at night. . . .I thought, ya know, I’m just going to break all the rules. I’m not sure if I ever knew what they were anyway. If people want to read something normal and understandable, then turn the page, but I’m going to be as strange as I want to be. This is my voice, this is what I say when I journey, this is what I tossed myself over the edge for, repeatedly, as best as I can give it, this is my surrender, other-wise, what’s the Po-in-T?