Beyond the paradise of product lines, through an economic wilderness of hollow olives & glycerine drinks, past the invisible homeless & the ghost of Ralph Waldo Emerson (his mum bringing him clean laundry), up a steaming track covered by vaporous cloud—a man with a cowboy hat will lead your pony on.
Dear, dear reader,
If you could drop this issue on the floor of any bedroom:
Its bad sex, self-help gurus & Sunday school cake would grace your house with all the enthusiasm of an existential forest; its indices of maths & physics would elevate your pick-up lines beyond the reach of outer suburbia; its quiet work of saying things (like bees or ants aren’t still when they build things) would secure the satanic moment in your career—
—where finally your portfolio fills: archangels & mountain vistas.
These are our bodies, floating the surface.
This is the moment, built ab ovo.
This is our data, holy & retinal.