There Are No Hierarchies, No

Of Rhythm Is Image / Of Image Is Knowing / Of Knowing There Is / A Construct

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

The Flowers Are Ravined By Bees, The Fruit Blossoms Are Thrown To The Ground, The Wind The Rain Forces Everything.

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere