Time to recharge the batteries, smudge some new colors on the mental smock, and, allegedly, submit a ream of print pieces for review. Stare at it! The forge fluctuates, the jet enjine whines, the keyboard remains mute.
Portents at the aperture? Tangun writhes out of the placenta, seismic flood in atomic Hamgyong; Paektu bursts upward in an immense vomit of bone-shards, the dead guerrillas’ final Mahlerian song. Or, perhaps, we will have to be content with the mineral carnage of a dystopian, urban, tributary North Korea in 2050. And Berlin awaits, and beyond, Beijing, my reappearance in digital guise, hands smudged with the dust of the departed…
Take it away, Allen Ginsberg:
….the beasts dance in Siam,/they sing opera in Moscow,/my boys yearn at dusk on stoops,/ I enter New York, /I play my
jazz on a Chicago Harpsichord,/Love that bore me I bear back to my Origin with no loss, I float/over the vomiter
thrilled with my deathlessness, /thrilled with this endlessness…
Now, get out of here, Cathcart!