Recycling...

Everything is full of gods: the first word to go out from the pre-Socratics, though they didn't call themselves that of course. Logic and his sister Paradox coming in later to clean up a bit. Dionysus disgraced, slinking off to get wasted by himself. But the underground was deeper than Hades even in those days and something lingered. Hermetic arcana disguised as Christ and the Virgin, subaltern coniunctio, sacred pornography more shocking than we can imagine now that sex has finally been sterilized. (Thus the necessary importation of homeopathic diseases, the last great 20th Century balancing act. Ebola sez: Mr. Kurtz, he dead. And means it this time.) As above, so below. Paracelsus stumbling onto rosy crucifixions just before the Age of Reason fucked it up. John Locke farting at Atalanta Fugiens. Carl Jung building Gnostic castles in the air and listening very carefully to Wagner. "Gott ist tot" said Nietzsche trying for a revival but getting only demons in the bargain. Goethe laughing, saying hell, I told you so. Ah well, it's history now.

But not all lost. Perhaps. Just sleeping it off somewhere. After the descent. After the change that never came. When you take the world apart, hang on to the directions. How she looked in morning light, smiled at nothing in particular. Santeria Botticelli. Voudon horse. Her voice was soft and cool. Her eyes were clear and bright.