Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

place inside myself mirror how the house is made? Another toke, relax a
little more into the murky, steaming water. There is nothing real in my
living room, nothing aesthetic in my bedroom, yet in the small, confined
space of my bathroom, I may be free, I may be Hephaestus without
shame, without lie or facade. My chaotic self-energy is formed by the
feminine hands of my environment, and I am not angry at what it has
made me. The language of my inner dialogue forms my house, I am a
product of it, a servant of the Mother Bee, my home, my society, free to
be as I am, Hephaestus, Club Foot—a bivalent builder of forms, molded
by those forms I make—lame, erect, and proud!
The Agent was talking on the phone now, his voice hushed, almost a
whisper. “Where were you last night?” It seemed that he was trying to
hide the layer of ice in his voice. He paused, tapping his finger idly on
the receiver.
“Well, the frustration, which I am sure you are well acquainted, is
now interfering with my ability to re-express. But this, too, I see as a sort
of test, from the outside-in or inside-out—both in fact, and I know that, if
our determination is as strong as our feeling warrants, little short of death
really has any right to interfere. Even that raises a certain question mark,
on both ends. I’m assuming that your absence doesn’t have anything to
do with a Hispanic guy named Juan?” he forced a quick chuckle and then
paused again.
“I should like to simply encapsulate my entire soul and hand it to you
to swallow, right? But, souls, being boundless, don’t compact, but only
specify and lose meaning. I do know—in the manner which anything is
known, that is to say ‘known, but shakily,’ that the boundlessness of the
joy, offset by the abysmal fear of the loss of my individuality, equilibrates
the journey. This is boat knowledge, in its manner of being creaky
and bound to spring leaks. My innermost nature was, for a while, worn
on my sleeve as an act, and as such it became cheap. So it hid and
became a subterranean being. Maybe a wise captain with enough scars to
know when to stay below deck, for the storm to plummet, touch water,
and pass away. Still, there is no real self understanding without a self
outside, a true mirror with which to judge the innermost character. And
that, I see in you. The treacherous abyss yawns beneath it, screaming
regret and warning, and yet, with boundless infinity, represented by
Hope, in the sails, the boat continues undaunted.” Suddenly, his voice
grated harshly. “And yet, you ask me to throw Hope even onto what
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