From the shattered hand of Jeremiah to the bangled hip of Salome, and all of the sensual inertia beneath, I squeeze into an aperture that reminds me of an attic. Perhaps a lone bulb sways overhead, clay-baking hot to the touch, so I don’t approach its luminance, instead to huddle in this corner, amongst vales of wedding dresses long divorced, cameos and lockets lost for generations, crusted photo albums brown-softening corner-curled daguerreotypes, and childly scribblings marking Piaget’s endless march, as if life stopped at sporting acne. And maybe it did. The bravado and braggadocio of youth, undeterred by realistic limitations and feckless ordinances dropped down from the heavens like so much pigeon scat—(for it leaves a gum-splash trail for Whencel and Glacial to follow through the tumescent wood, to granny-glommer’s den we go… until we find out what sharp tooths she has!)—to enumerate the ways in which the breaths we take are wrong. And long. Quickly: four seconds in and two seconds out. Anxiety sweeps the tongue, you swab! and rushed to the DNA lab to resurrect a memory of a place and time. A time when pimple scum smeared the mirrors of a young man’s home, plastered with strewn clothes and semen stains, pacifying cigarettes reminded him of the nipples he was denied as a scuppered pup—(off to the latchwork mines with you!)—unprepared for routinization, the intrusion of the mundane, to remain fetally aware that Monday hasn’t a care for the Teequila worms of the weekend, and muddling through migraine and nausea like a landlubber beraft at sea, finds the floor with his knees, and rises. Rises like a golden God, tremendous above the parquet of the floor, the swirling pools of effluence, of finding, amidst all this chaos, the ordering will of the will of the imagination. In tie and tails, dandy with a walking scepter and a doff of the hat, he waters the world with his whiteness, and the world doth grow at his saddle-shoes.