I Beg Your Pardon
For ten years I was a patient without borders. I can’t shake off the ketamine now at noonday.
A Sunni awakening hovers in the boughs of Emerson’s fir-trees. Poultice and policemen loiter at the door. They’ve come to pick you up. Suicide and murder are intimate strangers, but what I…
Getting the right shade of blood means staining the silk thirty times. That is not the most elaborate step. Even traditions have to evolve. Middlemen, counting by ten-thousands, take their cut in a cumbersome system of meticulously indexed patience.