Drunk and despairing, I plucked this book from a low-hanging branch. I bit into its tender flesh and let the inky juice drip down my chin. I stumbled back down the banks of the brook, calling out for someone to pick the ripe flesh from between my teeth.
I remember traveling with Giacomo on tour for our band. In Vienna, we had a weekend off so we explored the city and drank mojitos & beer at the hostel bar. This was maybe fifteen years ago, back when we were still skinny, wearing black jeans and inside-out shirts. We had recorded sounds of the city on his old Tascam – the train cars, the bells, the workers trimming old dead branches at the palace. We didn’t talk to anyone else in the bar, happy in the quiet together. We wrote postcards and looked at the map, trying to find the catacombs. Then we found them. There they are, we said, almost in unison.
In the dream, you were digging through piles of secret, unreleased collections by your favorite authors. It was a treasure trove of hidden beauty, but you woke before you could leave the store, Chainsaw Poems and Other Poems sitting coyly on top of your pile.