There is a state of make believe to this piggery you call prose
and one must be able to see it clearly. You did imitate something real,
but it exemplified a kind of perjury of the self—malnutrition, bad will.
I could see it so clearly that I stepped away. You must ask yourself:
why do people do this to you? Indeed, the opposite of a pheromone,
your chemical substance is your exit crash.
You are not a member of a pastoral people for which you speak
nor are you a martyr of developed fables achieving their best import.
I think this wicked rivalry of selves, of your neophyte denial vs.
the earnest fallacy do not speak to some engaging quality you see
in yourself—for being unusual, an eccentric force of brain will;
you are not the neem of a tropical tree. Your marching style
is a rucksack of illness. Pack your bags and find some pacifism,
it is a long road, with uncertain terms, and the mind that ghosts
so much will make difficulty insurmountable.
Volume XXV / Spring 2012