My dear Mirchik, the days here are long. Hurray for grease-pencil daffodils. Hurray for slanting drop curtains of rain. Seven years listening to ‘Wild Thing,’ weaving, then waving a deep-pile Blue Peter flag. When little thread remained on the bobbin, so to speak, I turned myself into two children, three, four, so we could hobgoblin under reams of narco-analysis, bobbing between river reeds along the River Phoenix. We reached a breachlet in the reeds, cloud cover gone AWOL. Hemoglobin, we told ourselves, the way home is a mirrored river, beneath which riverweeds brush riverweeds. Catch us, Pieter Bruegel, as we fall toward the silvered slab of the coroner, guided to our destination by a signal-to-noise ratio lower than the amperage of a lie detector’s early morning aleatory. A stray hare has wandered into the arms race, only lately recognized as a Turing Point in history. Let us raise an intelligence in honour of the sad tortoise, whose ten-yard stare, stranded atop the podium, emulates a mountain village wiped clean by spillage. Total sushi slushy. One man’s John Denver is another man’s best friend in high places, trained in the camps of Transmission Terriers, wirewalking the sinews of El Camino and/or the Hajj, sniffing the slopes of sine waves for survivors. With a kiss like the kiss of fridge lips, Sunseeker/Sunseeker Inc. merges with Ægean Origami. Systemic lists of ad libs. Pi charts. Heart rates. Tasers if necessary. Tear gas if mercenary. Wind drift. Airlifts. Lots of shots of mostly cleavage. At the end of each word, in the dark, there’s a splash, sparkling synchysis; on his pillar of fire, St. Simeon Stylites, receiving transmissions, tries not to weep into the blue machinery.