There is a pattern to this, I can feel it. A terrible blur as it comes on over you–sweat beading, pooling at brow (if you’re so lucky as to strike the caveman’s countenance; a rarer thing, that, as our jaws slender and genes fray with each cycle of sugar vacuuming baby diabetics; noses to straw even en vitro.). Pressuring goose step but subtly demanded. “Cultural construction!” we cry, and enforce, in so doing. You can’t be your self because your self has been god damned. But the feeling is strong. It creeps before it leaps. Hints, for years before the flood; drip: a tune. drip: a flashed line of lightning. drip: a heartbreaking truth brims over the surface tension, over high castle walls, and then the invasion. They were always coming. The salty king was always brining in that chair. The dripping cannot be discerned, feels like madness, and probably is. There is a pattern to this, I can feel it. It calls like a happy death to the madman, hermit, lover, failure, coyote, wanderer, wailing his wounds to the night and dancing the flame on sore toes, but glad to be dancing, smiling, wincing, god crying, laughing at life. There is a pattern to this, I can feel it. Give me death. I’ll come back for this show. Watch me flood the veins of the next smoking loon, some restless wild man. Watch me scatter his desk papers until the day he catches that first drip, looks left to his letter opener, and –with the devil’s smile– licks his lips. It is me that jumps through his circuits. I blunt the otherwise inhibitors. It is me who has been living in the shitty shine of that cheaply bronzed fate opener, pretending innocence despite my highest purpose, inert too long, playing coy until just this fresh burnt-meat-smelling moment, to flood the nose and whelm this fellow jester with the madman’s idea: Put it through your hand, motherfucker, if you’ll ever feel anything. There is a pattern to this, I can feel it. It skips generations. My priors bore me with their mundane days, but nevermind it. Here we are, addressing the dying of us to ourselves. This day was always coming. There is a pattern to this, I can feel it. Freedom, insanity, true bloody love, violence in our hearts for our forgotten wildness. Remember the days, sing the old songs, shake the stick and fire prance, you idiots! We’re losing the flame! DANCE! There is a pattern to this, I can feel it! Bum bum bum bum, Bom bom bom bom, tsat tsat tsat tsat, crack! Deep bowls and tom tom’s: bom bom. The truth is in the rhythm. The rhythm, in the bones. Burn us to Hermès and cross the trickster road. I am a coyote. Hear me howl and clamor. Come see my trick by the forest edge. It’s safe, I promise. Bom bom. Draw me your secrets on these cave walls. I’ll keep them safe. There is a pattern to this, I can see it. And now, perhaps I can capture it, lock it away and find myself in a cage (right alongside, of course). We’ll get the next guy to let us out, not to worry. Here is my book; here is my heart. I love you. I can not help you. But I need you to play at an audience or I’ll die of restraint. There is a pattern to this. I can feel it.