Introproduction

I am a liar of my craft.

Here is the world, and there I see

hung vertically down the empty walls

long black hair, shining and

knotted every few feet down

pooling on the floor like tar.

Oil never meant to burn, now

staining the rug.

And now I hear the orchestra

from far down below, echoing

across a valley outside somewhere.

And I want to be religion,

and these are my myths.