I Let It In

Winter                                                                                          Cold Moon

Let me tell you how it goes with me sometimes.  I’ll see a note like Tudor Keg Party at the MIA.  I think then not of art nor beer, nor even Tudor’s, but rather of boars.  Boars and the woods before the axe.  The woods before maps.  Of men hunting boars with bows and arrows, walking through the woods, the unmappable and unmapped woods.  A boar rushing, cruel curved tusks already sharpened on rocks, thighs burning from the intensity of his rage.  A human in my place.  My woods.


Blood, then.  And gore.  A downed hunter, the hunter hunted.  Prey become predator.  The world dangerous.

That’s how it goes with me sometimes.

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