Primitive Mentor

Private Waterfall

 Prvate Waterfall You must be careful eating thorns not to eat the maudlin fruit. I find it completely impossible to fear my death when I’m nauseous so planes in turbulence, boats in high seas— no problemo. But spring drizzle, a bird mispronouncing my name, I dive for the shadows that only have a passing relationship to what casts them. Oh no they don’t, little chirrup, it is shadows that cast the material world. So okay, maybe they slept together once when one was very sad and drunk. You have to be very careful when you’re sad and drunk and the river wants you to star in its cabaret and the artificial flavor factory is concentrating on almond. You have to be careful when you’re absently tearing apart a plastic cup that when you move on to yourself it’s easier, deckles at the edges like expensive handmade paper on which you feel mighty hesitant writing a thing. Or you could use little scissors to make snowflakes or a line of deformities holding hands. I know you were punished when you were young and that punishment took more and more complex forms like a single-celled slap in the face becoming mammalian humiliation by the same force that led you from finger-painting to tax evasion. But remember how it felt to paint a flower,  how a flower was the basic building block of all things: a hand, a house, a horse, the sun, mommy, daddy, baby, you, a bandage, a valentine, a flame. It still is. ...