Soon after the war was over, the ghost of an American soldier materialized in Vietnam. An infuriated officer pissed on the spot where his troops had reported it. When apparition fled, the officer began to suffer migraine headaches. Consulting a ritual specialist, he was told the subject is plastic—not elastic, it never springs back into its original form—it is malleable, but it can explode and create itself anew. In this way, there is nothing outside the text, but the text is no less natural than it is cultural, it is no less biological than it is spiritual (or mental), it is no less material than it is to dig up an American skull with a bullet hole in it, and have the remains sent home. After an unknown foreign soldier was found, boxed and shipped home, the headaches disappeared. The ritualist said, "Dead people don't fight. They are not really even angry. They simply want to be remembered."
recycles summer's heat into red, yellow and purple sprinkled with orange
and misty blue. I bow to their beauty,