(M. Doughty)

Moon Sammy walks. Across the floor. Below the floor. There is a wall.

Behind the wall. There is a chair. Moon Sammy knows. The chair is

there.

But that's OK, that's OK, you can do that--if you're wound up, full of

tension,

incoherent. Your mouth is buttered with lies; you ask why, but you

could

call it enigmatic; all your thoughts about the chair are full of

static.

Automatically your mind goes down the stairwell to the chair; your

body

says Moon Sammy, can you come back?

Strum it.

Moon Sammy washes. In the sink. Below the sink. There is a drain. The

drain

goes straight. Into the sea. The sink itself. Is porcelain.

Obsess yourself with causality. The information you hear is a

loophole,

technicality. Behind every object is a mathematic; an obscure

substance

infused with a kinetic force, energy, an obscure conscience shoots a

gun at

the feet the world dances.

Babylon, mystery, mother of harlots, and all these abominations of the

earth, that sits on many waters, drunk with the blood of the martyrs

of

Jesus.

And I wondered with great admiration.