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Killer sun rays highlight our desert ways, bring back the Mother of desert customs. Hunched behind the brass of a lyrical spittoon, the old man, Erebus, watches his wall TV. He can savor and chew a dark wish or recollect abuse in wide-screen pandemonium.
On screen the techno-god descends from the night sky for a smooth landing beneath tipped horns of a January moon. The first rumors of Jupiter filter in, make headlines, wind, no pictures, a hush and pretend life as usual, closing lids of a hundred eyes. The wand and the sword unite in waving the audience to sleep. Outside, the boulder that sings, chirrs a few bars for basement lizards. Erebus lives in a place far different, alienated from the mind fix.
The goddess slowly unveils her technological innocence, the veil still whispering an iron age wound while one dim eye retraces the river of molten evil. She opens the single lid the universe tends on a cosmic, empty vista, black and endless, hoping to hope again.
A shameful state is one not supported by nature though all lands are pushed and threatened. Will NO amount of will keep our glands from killing us? Town and cottage resound with hyper-serious claims mistaken for comedy series, first as tragedy and then as farce. With lays all smugly chorused he learns what passes for intellect or fills in for a new age sincerity.
Erebus watches sincerely. He is what he does. He is what he owns. He wakes up too late for learning to make a life with a dangerous new myth. The tools learned in solitude beg for oil and use or raise onto cinder blocks. Brave tech slaves rely on standardized worlds where too much apparatus gets in the way of renewable symbols, blind to the sand traps. Like the water temples, antiquity prevails. The moon fades into nothing and a south wind starts to rise where apples are picked and a boar is killed for the feast. Erebus turns on his vacuum cleaner, knocks over the brass spittoon, and learns the value of a good living.
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