I see the mad woman moon bleeding. I see the
sun as a war man burning. I see Atlas at the
fulcrum forge dreaming of hydraulics and cheap
chiropractics. I see myself running to the village
bell tower wondering will I get there in time.
It is the certainties and assumptions of the
tweak men that adds value to the needs, purchase
to the wants, and wishes whiskey into the blood
of every mans broken heart.
It is so! The “ands” never add up to enough in a
world view contaminated by scarcity. We are the
ash from the fire called complicity, the stigmatized
embarrassment of Christ.
Now we are Gods, defining everything within
contexts of ourselves. We are no longer proportional
to skin, no longer contiguous with touch. We have
built our hubristic houses so far apart that now we
must live like exiles – alone.
(Written for and read to Ivan Illich a year before his death.)